


Dragon!lock

by I_am_lampy



Series: Shifter!Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: John comes home from work one day and discovers an egg in his sitting room.





	1. Chapter 1

John stared at the crate in his sitting room. There was no shipping information on it—it was just a wooden slat crate, about three foot squared. He walked closer and looked down at the top of it. The lid was nailed down. Whatever was in it wasn't for him.

He trotted down the stairs and knocked on the door of his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He waited, but nobody answered his knock. With a huff of frustrated breath, John mounted the stairs to his flat and made himself a cup of tea. Then he sat in his chair and stared at the crate. In the end, curiosity overcame him and with a butter knife and some elbow grease, he levered up the lid.

Inside was shredded cardboard that had the appearance of straw. On top of it was a large beige envelope, bulky with something. There was no address or name written on the front. John turned the envelope over. It wasn't sealed, which made him feel less guilty when he opened it and slipped his finger inside. He drew out a single sheet of paper, written in an elegant cursive. He set the note down on top of the fake straw and turned the bulky object out into his hand. It was a temporal thermometer, the kind that doctors sometimes used with infants. John dropped it into his pocket and picked up the note.

 _Make sure to keep it wrapped up so it stays warm_ , the note read _, and take its temperature every six or eight hours with the enclosed device to ensure it stays above 100 Fahrenheit. As it gets closer to hatching, its temperature_ —

Here John stopped reading, alarmed. _Hatching?_ Clutching the note in his hand, he began digging carefully through the shredded cardboard. Handfuls went sailing and fell, unheeded, to the floor. John encountered a raw, undyed silk wrapping, which he slowly and gently tugged loose, revealing a mess of cotton wool batting. This too he folded open.

There before him was an egg—a very large egg, roughly eight or nine inches in diameter at its apex and curving to, John guessed, eighteen inches or so. Everything but the top third of the egg was hidden within its woolen nest.

An opalescent sheen graced the egg and John found himself tilting his head from side to side to watch the fiery colors slide and shift. There were handsome dark purple splotches gathered in an arc over the side, disappearing into the depths of the crate.

He couldn't help himself, really. He lifted his hand and laid it on the surface of the egg. It was hot, almost feverish to the touch. John thought, _I need to take its temperature_ , but that thought disappeared as a sense of contentment settled over him. He found himself caressing the egg, his left hand petting it from the top down its side as far into the crate as he could reach. His surroundings seemed to fall away. _John_ , he thought, but it wasn't in that internal voice he recognized as his own. That pulled him out of his daze and he smoothed the note crushed in his right hand out on the edge of the crate, his left hand drifting back to the egg.

_As it gets closer to hatching, its temperature will rise to between 104 and 106. Stay constantly close at that point so you are present when it does hatch. I plan to be back from Dubai within the week, but I'm reasonably certain the egg will hatch before then. I would not ask this of you otherwise._

_Feedings for the first twenty-four hours should be raw organ meat, pureed. Once the teeth begin coming in—_

"Teeth?" John said out loud. "Shit."

— _(usually after three days), you can add well-cooked grains to the meal. Offer soft fruits directly as well. Do_ **not** _touch the egg and keep physical contact with the hatched infant to a minimum._

John reflexively snatched his hand back upon reading that last sentence. But as he stared at the egg in mounting wonder, the desire to lay his hand back upon it began as an itch between his shoulder blades. He slid his hand back over the hot contour of the arrestingly attractive egg and a faint smug _purr_ of sound shivered through his chest along with the welcome comfort of _home_ , something he hadn't had in a very long time.

_All of these instructions, of course, assume the worst-case scenario, namely that the egg hatches within the next day or so, making you nursemaid for the infant's first week. I will do my best to wrap up my business overseas and make it back before you must undertake these duties._

_I appreciate, as always, the dedication you have shown to my family for the last forty years._

_MH_

"Huh. What kind of bird has _teeth_?" he asked the egg. Then, "Oh, you must be a _lizard_. A bloody fucking big one, too. Your egg is _enormous_."

He didn't question why he was talking to an egg. After all, the army _had_ sent him to a therapist.

~*~

After a twelve hour shift in the A&E of The Royal London Hospital, John needed to shower, eat, and sleep, in that order. Before moving onto those tasks, though, he took the egg's temperature (101.7°) and found himself reluctant to leave it, as though it would hatch if it wasn't being watched.

"Look, stay cool while I take a shower and get some food in me. Then I've got to sleep, especially if you're going to hatch soon. I'll have to call into work, take the week off. I've got a lot of vacation time coming up, but—" and there he trailed off because the word _work?_ and _vacation?_ drifted into his mind. He knew it was the egg. The egg was speaking to him. The egg was _speaking_ to him.

"Are you _talking_ to me?" he asked.

 _Talking_ , the egg said, as though it had finally learned the word to express the concept. _John_ , it then said, _talking work?_

So John explained to the egg what _work_ meant and _vacation_ and also _doctor_. Then the egg told him it wasn't an _it_ or even an _egg_ but a _him_.

"And your name is…?"

 _Name_? he/the egg asked.

"A name is what everyone calls you, so you stand out from everyone else. My name is John, which is a dirt common name, but I'm a dirt common sort of bloke, so that's alright. Most people have a first name and a last name. The first name is what your parents give you that's especially yours, and the last name is your family name, what your parents and siblings, if you have them, are called. So, I'm John Watson. But then, like I explained, I'm a doctor so I'm called Dr. John Watson, though mostly only at work."

_Doctor important?_

"Well, I mean—I'm not one to brag, but I'm actually qualified as a trauma surgeon, which, yeah—it's a pretty big deal. I was never brilliant at school, mostly found academics boring, and I loved sports, even though I was small. I was going to leave school with my A-levels—"

_A-levels?_

"Yeah, look, I can't explain to you the entire English education system, but the bottom line is I'd planned to leave school at sixteen then go into the army. But my teachers kept pushing me to stay in school longer and finish it out. And then the army recruiter saw my test scores and told me to go to college and when I came out to join as an officer. I was lucky—all along the way, people—mentors, really—kept encouraging me to go further. _Take biology instead of general science_ and then it was _volunteer at the hospital—I think you'd like it_ and before you know it my supervisors at the hospital were saying _you should be a doctor_ and _the army needs doctors right now_. The army paid for medical school and I did my training at Sandhurst like all the rest, and then my CO said _you should become a surgeon_ and I did some seriously intense trauma surgeon training at Bart's and then I went to Afghanistan, saved a bunch of men who got shot, lost a few. And then, and then—"

John took a deep breath, his left hand trembling. He didn't think he could go on, could tell Him the Egg what had happened after that. Why he was back in London. Why he couldn't bear thinking of what he'd lost and how little he'd gained back. If it hadn't been for his challenging job as an A&E doctor at The Royal London he would still be limping around with his cane and watching his savings dwindle alarmingly.

 _And then_? Him the Egg asked breathlessly. (Well, in that _tone_.)

"And then I got shot. And it got infected and I've got nerve damage in my shoulder and I had a psychosomatic limp in my leg and the army sent me home. They gave me everything then took it all away again. Well, they handed me a therapist and a shitty pension as recompense for kicking me out of the army."

 _Dirty bastards_ , Him the Egg declared venomously.

"Hey! Who taught you that word?"

 _John did_ , and Him the Egg laughed at John's embarrassment.

"Yeah, alright, I've got a terrible mouth on me. Hey, I was a soldier. It comes with the territory."

 _No eggs_?

"What?"

_John has no eggs?_

John sighed loudly and shook his head sorrowfully. It wasn't exactly like he _wanted_ children, but his parents were dead, his sister was an alcoholic and he was too broken to drag anyone into his life.

 _I glad I drag into your life_ , said Him the Egg with such utter conviction that John's heart squeezed painfully.

"Listen, you little bugger, don't go getting any ideas. I can't keep a ten foot lizard in a flat in the middle of London. We're gonna have to find who you belong to and get you back to them."

_No! I stay here. With John._

"You can't, love," John murmured, though it made him inordinately sad to say so. "I'm absolutely knackered, so let me shower and grab something to eat. I don't want to leave you in here by yourself in case you get the idea you should be hatching while I'm sleeping. I guess I'll have to take you to bed with me." This last part he said mostly to himself.

When John stood, his hand slipped off the egg and he only then realized he'd been touching the egg almost continuously for the—he glanced at his watch—two hours they'd been talking. So much for not touching the egg.

In the shower, he contemplated how he would get an egg that big into his bed without dropping it. Perhaps sleeping in the living room next to it would be a better proposition. Yeah, that's what he'd do.

John ate, called into work claiming a family emergency (which it was, in a way) and then made himself a pallet next to the egg. He was frustrated that he couldn't reach over the top to touch the egg so he levered out two of the slats in the side and stuck his hand through. Once he'd gotten that situated, he took the temperature of the egg again.

"102.6°. You're getting close, aren't you? Well, try not to hatch before I get some decent rest, you little bugger."

Then John settled on his pallet and slipped his hand through the crate and the careful cuts he'd made in the silk and wool batting and laid his hand on the beautiful egg where Him—

 _Sherlock_ , he said. _I name Sherlock._

"That's an unusual name," John said quietly, sleep already creeping up on him. "How'd you come up with that?"

 _Sher because I like how it sound_ —

"And _lock_?"

_Lock because I lock John in my heart._

John's throat closed up and he almost whimpered in the attempt to hold back what felt like could potentially be the biggest, ugliest cry he'd had since he was a little boy.

 _Sherlock lock in John heart, too_ , Sherlock said smugly and John found that he could not, _would_ not, even under threat of his life, deny that to be true.

~*~

From the moment he woke up the next morning, John dutifully took Sherlock's temperature. Out of curiosity, John took it more often than the instructions specified. After the big jump from morning to evening the day before, the egg's temperature seemed to have stalled. It hardly crept up at all over the next six hours. Finally, he forced himself to stop obsessing, and settled into conversation with Sherlock.

As the morning wore on, Sherlock went from talking in choppy sentences without pronouns to full sentences, using _I_ for himself and _you_ for John rather than their names. As they spoke, John's hand never strayed far from Sherlock's egg unless he was in another room. Even then they could speak together, but the connection was very faint, reduced almost to impressions. They tested it out. John could get all the way down to the entryway before the tie between them broke.

Later John asked, "Why did MH say I shouldn't touch your egg?"

Sherlock's mood turned dark. John could feel the frightening chill of the void Sherlock had existed in before John had come along.

 _Don't know_ , Sherlock said with a sharpness in his voice that made it clear this was a subject he didn't want to continue with.

"Well, it was damned cruel and they've deprived themselves of a charming and intelligent companion. I almost can't imagine my life without you anymore even though it's only been twenty-four hours."

 _I never want to imagine my life without you_ , Sherlock said and then grilled John on a new topic—the necessity of social interaction among humans and whether or not lizards behaved in the same way in the wild, which then led to an explanation of _sentience_ and how to identify it, one of those grey areas that John only had opinions on, not facts. Sherlock found opinions to be less useful than facts, as though opinions were unnecessary to understanding.

"Opinions are one way in which you identify your morality, your desires, your responsibilities to yourself and others."

 _How_?

"Well, I know for a fact that the earth goes round the sun and that, in turn, forms my opinion on what that means for my place in the universe. The more scientists discover about the cosmos, the more I marvel at how unlikely life is. That gives me joy and pushes me to experience things I'm afraid of but long to do. It makes life more precious, which is important for a doctor. We can't pass judgements on patients and give the ones we don't like less comprehensive care than the ones we do."

 _You're contradicting yourself_ , Sherlock said. _First you say opinions are necessary and then you say you can't form opinions about patients_.

"Oh, I can form plenty of opinions. But I can't let it stop me from doing my job as best I can. That's where ethics or morality comes in. Life is valuable, ergo all life should be considered valuable, not just the ones I think deserve it. I'd really like to wrap my hands around the neck of MH for denying you the company of people who can understand you, but killing is against my ethics."

_You killed in the war._

John hesitated, the words a punch to the gut. Quietly he said, "I did."

_Why is killing okay in war, but not when someone deserves it?_

More than anything, John wanted to give Sherlock his most authentic self, and not just because Sherlock could tell if he was hiding something. He wanted the kinship, the feeling of home that he had with Sherlock and that required truth and openness, no matter how hard it was to talk about certain things.

"Your commanding officers and the politicians and the pundits like to say that we fight for our country or for the plight of a people or to stop a tyrant. The truth, though, is that, on the ground, you're really fighting for yourself and the men to your right and left. You're fighting to keep them alive, even the ones who drive you mad or piss you off. Even the ones you may have had a bit of a punch or two with. When you go out onto the field of battle, though, you're not one person against these other guys, you're all one unit, all of you together. You fight to live and that sometimes means you kill someone before they kill you."

After a period of silence, Sherlock said, _I think I understand_. _I would kill someone who tried to kill you_.

"I know," John said, feeling near tears for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. "I feel the same."

~*~

Around one in the afternoon, Sherlock's temperature had risen to 103.1° and with alarm, John realized he had nothing in the house to feed his imminent hatchling.

"I've got to leave for a few minutes so I can buy your food," John said, locating his wallet and keys. "Try not to hatch while I'm gone."

 _You're leaving?_ Sherlock asked, dismay and fear ringing through John as Sherlock's emotions bled into his.

"I'll be back, dear one," John said gently. "But I can't have nothing to feed you when you hatch. The instructions are very specific about what you can eat."

_How will I know when you will come back? How long is too long? What if you need me?_

"Sherlock, I'm just going down the block. I'll be back in less than thirty minutes."

_How long is thirty minutes?_

After John explained how many minutes were in an hour and how many hours since John had first touched Sherlock's egg, Sherlock relaxed marginally. He still said _hurry_ with the kind of insecurity that pulled at John's heart.

"I promise I will hurry."

Twenty-four minutes later, John came into the flat and greeted Sherlock with, "I had to buy a mincer for you, I'll have you know." Sherlock's relief was palpable and John stroked the egg reassuringly as he passed it on the way to the kitchen. "You have such a lovely egg. It'll almost be a shame when you break out of it."

 _But you do want me to hatch, don't you?_ Sherlock said, again with that need for reassurance that John felt hopelessly compelled to give. He wanted to soothe Sherlock—he _enjoyed_ soothing him. It gave him purpose, something just as important as the sense of belonging he felt with his new friend.

"Of course I want you to hatch, you silly—uh—lizard? I can't wait to meet you in person. I don't know how we'll make it work, a giant lizard living here with me, but we'll find a way, won't we?"

 _I hope_ , Sherlock said, not entirely convinced.

In the kitchen, John kept up a running commentary of what he was doing, just for the sake of maintaining their verbal interaction, even though they could sense each other clearly from that distance. John unpacked the mincer and rinsed the parts in soapy water. He pulled the wax paper wrapped packages of chicken hearts and livers the butcher at Tesco's had given him for free.

"I just want you to know that the only thing more disgusting than the thought of eating raw chicken livers is the thought of eating raw _pureed_ chicken livers."

_I don't want to eat disgusting things!_

"Oh, I'm quite sure you'll enjoy it. I have a feeling MH is very knowledgeable on the feeding of newly hatched lizards, even if he's a heartless bastard."

In small batches, John ran the chicken organs through the mincer, separating them into lidded plastic containers as he went. Once all the meat was pureed, he put it in the fridge, washed the mincer, and put it on the draining board to dry. The worktop looked like a butcher block when he was done, but he only gave it the minimum cleaning. A sense of urgency had overtaken him and, after washing his hands, he rushed to the sitting room, pulling the thermometer out of his pocket as he went.

"Let's see how far along you are," John said, holding the sensor against the egg and pushing the button. When John read the readout, he felt his chest tighten and his stomach swoop uncomfortably. "104.2°. Wow," he said in a hushed voice. "You're really close to hatching, aren't you?"

 _How will I know? How did_ you _know when it was time for you to hatch?_

John laughed, his nervousness dissipating in light of Sherlock's naïve curiosity. John found himself giving a lesson on human reproduction to a salaciously fascinated Sherlock. He'd just gotten to the birthing process when the door to the flat sprang open.

In walked a tall man with auburn hair dressed in a three piece suit and carrying a rolled up umbrella. He tapped it onto the floor as he stopped just inside the door.

"Dr. John Watson?" the man said, coming all the way into the room until he was only a yard away from where John sat in his chair, his palm resting on Sherlock's feverish egg. The man had eyes only for the egg and he glared at John's hand. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm here to pick up the egg."


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

John stepped in front of the crate and laid his hand upon Sherlock's egg.

_John? John, who is that man and what does he want with my egg? Tell him he can't have me. Tell him I live with you now!_

"Sherlock isn't going anywhere with you," John said.

"Who's Sherlock?" Holmes asked, jaw tight.

"Sherlock is the bloke inside the egg."

Holmes scoffed and reared his head back with a disgusted look on his face. "You named the egg?"

"No, he named himself."

"Oh, for God's sake," Holmes said, both hands on the umbrella handle. He closed his eyes and tilted his head forward for a moment before straightening up. "The egg was delivered to you by mistake, but it belongs to me and I—would you _please_ remove your hand from the egg? My instructions made it clear that it was not to be touched. I should like to take it away without you causing any more damage."

John kept his hand on the egg and grinned menacingly at Holmes.

Holmes rolled his eyes and said, "I’m fully prepared to extend a financial incentive. Upon release of the egg, ten thousand pounds will be deposited into your—"

"You know, the thing that really bothers me the most—other than the fact I don't know what your plans are for Sherlock—is that you took an infant creature (and you're the one that called it an infant in your notes)—a _sentient_ infant creature, one who can speak telepathically but only after the egg is touched—you took this creature and _expressly instructed_ the caretaker _not to touch the egg_. That's rather like taking a human baby and giving it all the necessary care for life, but isolating it completely from anyone who can relate to it. You know, they did studies of that way back before it was deemed inhumane. A king did, yeah. He took babies, put them in a room by themselves where they were fed, but not touched. Guess what happened." John leaned forward, letting all his menacing anger towards this bastard show. " _They died_. Oh, and let's not forget the Romanian orphans back when the Romanian government declared birth control illegal. Most of those children were permanently damaged, unable to interact socially or learn to care for themselves, despite not being born with any mental disabilities. It was sheer _neglect_ that stole those children's lives.

"You obviously know I'm a doctor, so you tell me what kind of _doctor_ would release a child into the hands of someone who abused that child? And what kind of doctor would accept a _payoff_ to turn a blind eye to that abuse? Yeah, well, you can just fuck right off, because _I_ am _not_ that kind of doctor. Now get out of my flat before I put you out on your arse."

Holmes's unimpressed raised eyebrows made John suddenly wary. He narrowed his eyes.

"Gentlemen," Holmes said, casually snapping his fingers over his shoulder. Two thugs in workmen coveralls stepped into the room. "Dr. Watson, if you don't release the egg, my— _coworkers_ here will restrain you. So, you see, it's in your best interest to accept the money. Because if I have to force the issue, you'll lose the egg and the money."

"Oh, they can fucking try," John said, his blood up so badly that his vision was starting to spark and narrow. "I may be short, but I pack a hell of a punch."

"Dr. Watson, I assure you that I don't wish to force the issue, but you must look at this logically. It's simply impossible for you to keep the egg."

"It's not an egg, it's a person, and his name is Sherlock. You've told me absolutely nothing about who you are or why you want Sherlock. Are you some secret government scientist mixing up human and lizard DNA in a lab somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, hm? Because you are _really_ not making your case any stronger by threatening me. I want to know who you are and why you—"

_I think,_ Sherlock said slowly as though about to impart information he'd rather not, _I think this is my brother._

"Are you fucking kidding me?" John shouted, looking at Sherlock's egg with a face creased with incredulity. Then he looked up at Holmes. "This—this—smarmy bastard is your _brother_?" He turned his attention to Holmes and shuddered with disgust. "You experimented on your _baby_ _brother_ you sick fuck?"

Holmes rolled his eyes then growled, over his shoulder, "Out! Wait in the car," to his thugs. They melted back into the shadows outside the flat, and their footsteps were barely audible on the stairs.

"I didn't _experiment_ on anyone," Holmes ground out.

"Maybe not, but you were still keen on letting him come into the world feeling all alone."

" _Alone_ is what protects us," Holmes sneered, his eyes icy.

"You mean, protects _you_ because you're sure as hell not protecting Sherlock!" John said, jabbing his finger in Holmes's direction. "I'll do everything I can to keep him away from you, do you hear me? Now if you're not going to give me any information, I'll repeat—you can fuck right off."

Holmes drew himself up. "If I provide the information you desire, will you agree to release the egg?"

"Not on your life," John said, slowly swiveling his head from side to side. "I wouldn't release anything more vulnerable than a fucking _tank_ to your care."

"I assure you, Dr. Watson, that _Sherlock_ isn't as vulnerable as you think he is," Holmes snarled, his jowls tight with exasperated fury.

"Oh, is that right? You expect me to just accept your word after you came strolling uninvited into my flat with your fancy umbrella and your brainless thugs and _demanded_ I hand over Sherlock's egg? And then—and _then_ when I point out that your instructions not to touch the egg amount to _child abuse_ , you act as though I'm being unreasonable! And then Sherlock tells me you're his brother, which, frankly, makes this _so much worse_. I'm sure you can—"

"He's a _dragon_ , you idiotic _stubborn_ fool!" Holmes hissed.

John's mouth fell open.

_Ohhhh, I'm a_ dragon _,_ Sherlock said reverently. There was a pause and then, _John, what's a dragon?_

"How can he be your brother, then?" John asked slowly. "You're _human_."

"Oh, brilliant deduction," Holmes said, rolling his eyes.

John's eyes narrowed. "Listen, you arrogant—" only to stop when Sherlock demanded, _John! What's a dragon!_

"It's a, uh—like a giant lizard with wings."

_But what does it_ look _like?_

John pictured the typical fire-breathing, death-and-destruction type dragon.

_Oh,_ Sherlock gasped. _Oh, I look so_ mean _! And I'm_ so big _! How will I fit in the flat?_

"That's a very good question," John muttered. He let out a blustery sigh and looked up at Holmes. "Now how did you go about getting a dragon for a brother when you're human if you didn't experiment on him, huh?"

Holmes ducked his head. Nostrils flaring, he looked up and grumbled, "You must keep secret what I'm about to tell you or I will find a more permanent way to remove you from my path." When John made a _get on with it_ gesture, Holmes, with obvious reluctance, said, "We're magical creatures. We can change between the two forms."

John shook his head, disbelieving, and yet—didn't he have a telepathic connection with Sherlock, who was currently inside a giant, pearly egg? And dragons, well—they discovered the giant squid was was not a myth so why not dragons?

"Okay, okay, so—did you hear that, Sherlock? You can change into a human! That's how you'll be able to fit into the flat! Just make sure not to be a dragon."

_Oh, but John!_  Sherlock whined _._ _I think I'd prefer to be a dragon. Humans seem so much less interesting._

"Oh, well, thank you."

_Well,_ you're _a very interesting human and, of course, you have my heart, but isn't being a dragon_ much _more exciting than being human?_

"I suppose," John said grudgingly because although he hated to admit it, Sherlock was right—dragons were pretty fucking awesome.

"The one-sided conversations are very tedious," Holmes said, pretending to be bored even though he was watching John with shrewd eyes. "Might we all share in the discussion?"

"Ah!" John said, stepping towards Holmes, who—to John's smug delight—shrank back momentarily before gathering his dignity about him once more. "You want to _share_ in the conversation? How about _you_ share the information I've been asking for this whole time. I'll even make you a cup of tea! But _quid pro quo, Clarice_."

Holmes said, "Gah," and rolled his eyes. "Can't you come up with a less battered and used quote?"

"I like battered and used. _I'm_ battered and used. Now sit your arse down. I'll go make the tea. Oh, and Holmes?" John turned in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room and said, very quietly, "Don't you dare touch that fucking egg or I'll dislocate every one of your fingers."

Holmes's eyes widened in affronted surprise. "How perfectly _ghastly_."

John grinned. "Absolutely."

And then Sherlock said, _John? It's time for me to hatch._

~*~

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who said they wanted more than three chapters is getting their wish.

* * *

John froze on his way into the kitchen and stared at the egg. "What's that now?"

_I'm ready to hatch! We'll finally get to meet each other in person! Aren't you excited, John? I'm excited! Oh, this is so exciting!_

Mycroft leaned forward eagerly, catching John's attention. "What is it? What did he say?"

"He said he's hatching." John looked at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. "Guess he's staying with me after all."

"Ugh! This is intolerable!" Mycroft said, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

John smirked, but his face paled as Sherlock's egg began to wiggle around in its nest. There were tearing and tapping sounds coming from inside.

With wide eyes, John asked Mycroft, "How long does it normally take for a dragon to hatch?" It pained him greatly to ask his next question. "What do I do?"

It was Mycroft's turn to smirk. "Never fear. _I_ know what I'm doing."

John rolled his eyes then his shoulders sagged. "Look—let's call a truce. You know how to do this better than I do and I still need answers I can't get anywhere else. He's your brother, and I get that you want to have access to him, but I want your word that you won't do anything against Sherlock's wishes. And that includes taking him away from here."

Solemnly, Mycroft said, "You have my word. Truce it is."

John narrowed his eyes. "You agreed to that a little too quickly. I'm not sure I trust you."

Mycroft spread his hands. "It seems to me that you and I both have our reasons to distrust each other. I assure you, though, that it would be nearly impossible to kidnap a ten foot dragon hatchling without anyone noticing, not to mention the injury to the kidnappers and the property damage even a small dragon is capable of. As I said earlier, he's not as vulnerable as you think. Not once he's out of the egg."

"Ten feet?" John asked faintly

Mycroft's smile was a knife. "That's only an estimate ."

"All right then," John said slowly. He gestured towards the kitchen. "I'll go make tea. How do you take it?"

John and Mycroft settled down with their tea, suddenly awkward with each other now that they'd called a truce. They sipped their tea in silence, avoiding each other's eyes. John's urge to touch Sherlock's egg was thwarted by the fact that Sherlock's egg wouldn't stay still.

Finally, John looked up at Mycroft. "Will you answer my questions now?"

Mycroft bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"How long does hatching usually take?"

"Anywhere from ten minutes to an hour."

John blanched. "Oh. That's—that's, like, _now_."

"Indeed."

"Will he be able to shift to human right away?"

"No. He can't shift until he reaches a certain maturity."

John rubbed his hand over his mouth. "How long does _that_ take?"

Mycroft smiled smugly. "A few weeks."

"Shit." John was beginning to realize this was not going to be as simple as he realized. "Okay, so—how big will he get before he's able to shift?"

"That depends on many factors."

John rolled his eyes. "And what are—"

_John, John! I'm about to break my shell! Look at me!_

Dutifully, John turned to watch as a sizeable piece of shell was punched off the egg with enough force to send it flying into the kitchen.

"Careful!" John said.

_Come look, John, come look! I want to see you! Come look inside my egg!_

John laughed. "Okay, okay!" He stood up and stepped to the crate and peered into the hole Sherlock had made in his shell. What he saw was mostly shadow—the eggshell was too thick to let in any light. "I can't see anything Sherlock. It's too—"

Out popped a foot. It was about the size of a housecat's but tipped with half inch talons. The toes had more joints than other animals—they were almost finger-like—and Sherlock used them to grip the edge of the shell.

_This is much harder than I thought it would be_. There was a note of frustration in Sherlock's voice. His talons slipped on the shell and he scrabbled to get a hold on it again.

John turned to Mycroft. "Can I help him?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't recommend it. Hatching makes them hungry and it's important they eat right away."

"Why?"

"He needs the iron if he's to make the shift to human. There is—" Mycroft took a deep breath and stretched his neck. "Anemia makes it difficult to change forms."

"Does that mean he'll need to eat organ meat all the time?"

Mycroft held up his hand. "Once he's taken his human form, his body will naturally produce what he needs to maintain his health. Dragons are made differently than humans, obviously. Proportionate to their size, dragons have far more muscle mass than humans. Their hearts needs to function at top performance to pump oxygen to those muscles, which means—"

"I'm a doctor. I get it."

_I'm very hungry already, John. I promise I will eat even if you help me hatch!_

John looked at Sherlock's egg then back at Mycroft. Then back at the egg. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really should follow Mycroft's advice. He knows what he's talking about."

John felt Sherlock's sullenness in response to that, but Sherlock didn't say anything. In fact, he remained silent for the entire time it took him to hatch. After the first leg there came a second. Once Sherlock got a grip with both feet, he started to lever himself up out of the shell. His head slowly appeared from out of the shell, his long neck stretching.

John was surprised at how small Sherlock's head and legs were, considering how big the egg was. Sherlock's head, like his legs, were entirely black except for white markings along the ridges of his eyebrows and the sides of his long neck. His eyes were a striking blue-green and stood out against his black skin. Something like whiskers, but thicker and shorter, lay along his cheeks. His snout was longer than any lizard's. Beginning halfway up his face, two ridges between his eyebrows went up and over each side of his head and as far as John could see along his body, almost like a crocodile. Looking closer, John could see a patch of white on the underside of Sherlock's chin and neck.

Without warning, Sherlock pushed himself up and out of the egg, clawing over the crate and landing with an ungraceful thud on his back. His belly and the underside of his ridiculously long tail were bone white with that same nacreous sheen as his eggshell and facial markings. His legs were long, his rear haunches thick with muscle.

Sherlock was growling loudly as he tried to right himself. Just as John started forward to help him, Sherlock eeled himself over onto his feet. It was then that John saw his great black wings. The tips of the wings were speckled with white, and a hooked claw graced the tip of each wing joint.

Sherlock seemed to have trouble flapping them. John realized they were wet, covered in egg slime. He fluttered them a little, flinging egg slime onto the floor. Then he shook his body like a dog, the tremor going all the way down his tail until he flicked the tip of it, like someone might flick a booger off their finger.

Unfortunately this meant Sherlock spattered more egg slime over the sitting room floor. He tucked his wings in and they lay neatly along his side. Then he swiveled his head until it landed on John. "John!" he cried in a surprisingly deep voice.

John, overwhelmed by wonder, fell into his chair, wide-eyed.

"JohnJohnJohnJohn!" Sherlock chanted, throwing himself at John's chair. He started to climb John's legs, his sharp claws puncturing the fabric of John's trousers and into his skin.

"Ow! Fuck! Sherlock, no!" John reached down and grabbed Sherlock under his belly, depositing him in his lap. "You can't climb me, okay? Your claws are too sharp. You'll hurt me."

"It's not my fault you have tender human skin," Sherlock said, turning his head away from John. He pulled up his long tail and coiled it around himself.

John couldn't help but laugh. Then he laid his hand on Sherlock's head. Sherlock nuzzled into it and John felt tears in his eyes. "It's good to finally meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's tail unwound from around his body and snaked up John's arm to his shoulder, around the back of his neck, up and over his head. Sherlock petted John's cheek with the tip of his tail while staring up at John with innocence and adoration in his eyes.

"You might want to feed him now," Mycroft said.

John had forgotten Mycroft was there and clearly Sherlock had as well because he whipped his head around and hissed at Mycroft.

"You leave my John alone!" Sherlock said, standing up in John's lap. Clearly his tail was used partly for emotional expression because the bottom third of it slashed outwards from John's head and pointed at Mycroft.

"It's all right," John said, stroking Sherlock from his head along his back, trying to gentle him.

"I don't like him," Sherlock said in what John suspected was supposed to be a whisper, but was audible to everyone in the room.

"Come now, Sherlock. I'm not all bad," Mycroft said. John was surprised at the flash of hurt in Mycroft's eyes.

"He's your brother, Sherlock. You'll have to learn to get along with him."

"Bah!" Sherlock spit.

John bit back a laugh. "C'mon, you. Let's go feed you your disgusting food."

~*~

Sherlock's tail was easily twice the length of his body, which explained why his egg was so big. From the tip of his nose to his rump, Sherlock was roughly two feet long. His tail tripled that length. John estimated Sherlock as six feet long, but his willowy body made him seem more snake than lizard. At least until he stood up on his long legs.

"Sherlock, don't climb up on the worktop!" John said after righting the kitchen chair Sherlock had knocked over with his tail when he followed John into the kitchen.

By the time the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock was already atop the counter peering around curiously. He lifted his tail up, coiling it in a corkscrew fashion. John noticed Sherlock's tail was never still.

Sherlock stood up on his hind legs, his back to John. He'd already figured out how to open the cupboards and was digging through them one by one. "John, I'm very hungry. I promised you I would eat—why are you being so slow in giving my food to me? Do you expect me to find it myself? That's not very caring of you." He moved onto the next cupboard, sweeping a newspaper and the box of teabags onto the floor, narrowly missing a mug that John snatched away in time.

John growled in frustration as he set the mug down away from Sherlock. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's belly and yanked him off the worktop. Sherlock squawked in surprise, legs flailing uselessly through the air. John turned around and set Sherlock onto the kitchen table, keeping his hand on Sherlock's back, pressing him down so he wouldn't move. Sherlock turned his head and hissed at John.

"We need to lay down some ground rules," John said through gritted teeth.

"Rules! What are rules? I'm just so hungry, John!"

John nodded, but he didn't remove his hand. "I just need you to stay on the table, okay? Keep your tail out of the way so you're not making a mess all over the house."

Sherlock ducked his head, corkscrewing his tail a couple of times and pulling it in close to his body.

"Good," John said. He held up his hands, palms out. "Stay just like that, okay?"

Sherlock nodded his head, his small size making his petulant expression cute.

John pulled one of the containers of pureed chicken livers out of the fridge, and tossed the lid in the sink. He stood for a moment with the bowl of food in his hand, wondering if it should be heated up and then remembered he had an expert in his sitting room. He turned to Mycroft to ask. Mycroft was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, looking entirely too amused. His body language practically screamed _I told you so_.

John glared at him. "Should I heat it up?"

Mycroft shrugged. "He's too hungry to care."

John turned around and saw that Sherlock was stretching his head in the direction of the open container, one step away from falling off the table. John quickly stuck the bowl under Sherlock's head.

Watching Sherlock eat pureed chicken livers was a gruesome experience. He shoved his whole snout inside the bowl and began slurping up the mush. When the plastic bowl slid away from him, he wrapped both front feet around it, holding it in place. It was only a minute or two before he'd licked up every bit.

He looked up at John plaintively. "I'm still hungry."

John grimaced at Sherlock's bloody snout and turned quickly to the refrigerator to pull out another container. Sherlock attacked this one with the same greedy enthusiasm. Suddenly, he sneezed right into the bowl. He yanked his snout out and shook it, slopping chunks of pureed chicken livers and drops of blood all over the table and the floor. John dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

Sherlock ate three bowls of food and then promptly fell asleep halfway through the fourth one, his snout still caught in the plastic bowl.

"You should have a pen to put him in when he eats and another for him to use as a litter box."

"How am I going to get that stuff, Mycroft, when I can't leave him alone!" John said, then scrubbed his hands over his face.

"No worries. I'll secure the necessary items." Mycroft stood, grabbing his umbrella.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said sincerely.

"He _is_ my baby brother," Mycroft said. "It's my duty to ensure he's cared for properly."

John glared at Mycroft. "In other words, you don't think I'm capable of taking care of him."

Mycroft's eyebrows went up. "On the contrary. It's clear to me now that you are just the man for the job." His smile almost looked genuine.

John found himself alone with a bloody (literally), troublesome, sleeping baby dragon. Though, perhaps not a _baby_ , considering Sherlock could already talk. Much like a baby, though, caring for him was going to be an enormous task.

His kitchen looked like a murder scene. He picked up a rag and spray cleaner to decontaminate his kitchen table and floor. Turning around, his eyes caught on Sherlock. The very tip of his tail was twitching back and forth like he was dreaming.

John smiled softly. Sherlock was really kind of adorable, if frighteningly capable of causing havoc in a very short period of time. John couldn't begin to imagine how he would manage Sherlock and his job, though he was almost positive Mycroft would help. After all, the last thing either of them wanted was an unsupervised Sherlock. There was no telling what kind of trouble he could get into.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a python squeezing John to death. John tried to move and couldn't.

"John!" said a deep voice. "Stop wiggling around. I'm trying to sleep."

Startled awake, John realized he'd fallen asleep in his chair and at some point, Sherlock had climbed up the back and was sitting on the headrest. His long, muscular tail was wrapped around John's arm and shoulder and coiled around his neck. John grabbed the part around his neck with the hand that wasn't already trapped by a dragon tail, and pulled on it.

"Sherlock, let me go. You're going to choke me."

"Nonsense! You're breathing just fine." Sherlock's head came to rest on John's shoulder, and he rubbed his cheek on John's.

Spreading gore across it.

"Agh!" John shouted, reaching up to rub it off his face. "You've wiped your nasty food all over my face! Sherlock, look, you can't just wind your tail around me like this. It makes me feel like I'm being restrained."

Sherlock's head craned around on his long neck to look at John. His eyebrow ridges pulled together in an eerily human expression. "You _are_ being restrained. I'm restraining you."

"Why?" John cried.

"Because I wanted to—" Sherlock tilted his head, looking thoughtful. His black forked tongue flicked out momentarily. "I can't quite see the word in your head. Coodling?"

John twisted his head to look at Sherlock. "You mean cuddling?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said. "Cuddling."

John would've put his head in his hands if he wasn't being held down by a clingy dragon hatchling. "Sherlock, cuddling is generally something two people do together."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "John, you are clearly confused. That's exactly what we're doing."

"I meant, usually both parties _want_ to do it."

A sound, more gasp than hiss, escaped Sherlock and then, with astonishing speed, John was released. There was a quiet thud as Sherlock jumped off the back of the chair onto the floor. John watched him walk across the sitting room, jump nimbly up on the couch, and then curl up, wrapping his tail around himself, looking more and more like a ball than a dragon, until even his face was covered.

Sherlock looked small and pitiful like that, and John felt his face heat in immediate chastisement, though he wasn't quite sure what he'd done.

"What's wrong?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock's voice came out muffled. "Since _I'm_ the only party who wants to cuddle, I'll just stay over here out of your way. We wouldn't want to have any nonconsensual cuddling."

John groaned. "Sherlock—I'm perfectly happy to cuddle with you, but you can't do it when I'm asleep. If I'd been awake, I would've told you I didn't like your tail holding me down like that, and then we could've cuddled in a way that we _both_ found pleasant."

Sherlock said nothing but he lifted the end of his tail to peek out at John. John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. How was this his life? This little dragon was both his heart's friend and an absolute bloody drama queen pain in the arse.

John stood and walked over to the couch and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock shrank away.

"Oh, stop that," John said. Then he laid his hand on Sherlock's back. "C'mere. Come sit in my lap, just like you are now, with your tail wrapped around you so it's not holding me down. Then we can cuddle."

John had to tug on Sherlock's tail a few times before Sherlock reluctantly uncurled himself and slunk into John's lap. John had braced himself for Sherlock's claws, but his paws were smooth. "What's happened to your claws?" he asked.

Sherlock turned around several times in John's lap, his long tail coiling around, before finding the position he wanted. "They go away when I don't want them and then come back when I do." Sherlock gave him a demonstration, and John bit back the yell when Sherlock's claws caught in the meat of his thigh. Sherlock immediately retracted his claws and ducked his head, covering his face with his tail. In a small voice he said, "Sorry."

"It's all right. Just—keep your claws away when you're around me, okay?" John petted him, stroking from head to rump. "Now, see? Isn't this nice?"

Sherlock's answer was a rumbling sound akin to a purr.

John continued to pet him until Mycroft stepped into his flat without knocking. Then John heard his landlady's voice and started to jump up to hide Sherlock.

Mycroft held up a hand to forestall him. "Mrs. Hudson knows about Sherlock." John gaped at him. Mycroft had the decency to look a little sheepish. "I felt it prudent to withhold that information. At the time, that is."

Before John could open his mouth, Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat in a cloud of industrious concern.

"There he is! Oh, isn't he a beautiful boy!" She leaned over to pet Sherlock who reared away from her hand with a wide-eyed look of shock on his face. "Come now, you handsome thing, let Mrs. Hudson have a quick pet."

 _Why is she referring to herself in third person?_ Sherlock asked John.

John was surprised—and proud—that Sherlock was tactful enough to ask it telepathically rather than out loud.

_Um. It's called baby talk._

_But I'm not a baby_ , Sherlock said, sounding deeply offended.

_You only hatched this morning so technically you are a baby._

Slowly, despite his misgivings, allowed Mrs. Hudson to touch him. She reached under his chin and began scratching him there. In his lap, John could feel that subvocal reverberating noise akin to a purr that Sherlock made when he was particularly pleased.

"Mycroft," John said dangerously, looking up at the offender with tight lips. "Why is Mrs. Hudson not surprised there's a dragon in the flat?"

"Yes, that was the information I withheld. The crate was intended for Mrs. Hudson. She has been in service to my family for decades and was, until today, the only person I trusted to care for a newly hatched dragon. She will be a great help to you until Sherlock is functioning independently as a human."

John didn't bother asking when _that_ would be.

Mycroft sat down in the chair opposite John's. "I propose we work out a care schedule so that John isn't the only one responsible for Sherlock. Obviously—" at this he took in a deep breath and squared his shoulders "—I cannot take on a full third as my job requires me to be constantly on call. My work hours are long and I tend to work seven days a week." At this he smiled thinly.

John shook his head and then looked up at the ceiling. "Why am I not surprised that you're already wiggling out of your responsibility?"

"Why, John!" Mycroft said with exaggeratedly wide-eyed indignation. "I did try to take the egg away from you, if you recall."

John gave Mycroft the two finger salute and then turned to Mrs. Hudson who was still bent over, scratching Sherlock under the chin while he purred. "Mrs. Hudson? My work schedule is fairly static, but I do work four days a week, ten hours a day. Including transportation time but I'll be here every night, so that's something the two of you don't have to worry about."

"Oh, nobody's worried!" Mrs. Hudson said, putting a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll just pop up here when John's at work and keep our Sherlock company, won't I you darling little thing."

Sherlock preened and John, feeling an unwelcome stab of jealousy, was tempted to dump him out onto the floor. "What happened to all the accoutrements for dragon rearing that you promised me, Mycroft?" John asked instead.

"They should be here any moment. You'll need to get Sherlock out of the way. Mrs. Hudson or myself will come get you when the workmen have gone."

John nodded in answer and heaved Sherlock up with him. Sherlock wound his tail around John's waist and butted his head under John's chin. John smiled down at him. "You're covered in chicken livers. You need a bath."

John deposited Sherlock on the floor in the bathroom and told him to stay put.

John turned on the taps and then ensured the bedroom door and the bathroom door that opened onto the hallway were both locked. Sherlock reared up on his hind legs, hooking his front paws over the edge of the bathtub as he watched the water pool inside.

"What's that, John?" he asked, as curious as John knew he would be.

"It's a bath," John said with a flourish in his voice. "You're going to go in there so I can clean you up."

Sherlock stared skeptically at the water. "I don't think I want to go in there."

"Well, you're covered in bloody chicken liver bits so you're going in there whether you want to or not."

"I'm not going in there unless you go in there, too" Sherlock asked, looking up at John.

The thought of sitting in a tub, naked, with Sherlock made John very uncomfortable. "I can't take a bath with you."

"Why ever not?"

John, mouth opened in the hopes something sensible would occur to him, looked at Sherlock and found himself unable to come up with even a flimsy reason why they couldn't bathe together. In John's mind, it felt highly inappropriate, like bathing with a child.

But when he really considered it, John realized that Sherlock wasn't a child, despite his innocence. It'd be sort of like bathing with one's dog. Without all the fur, that is.

"Fine," John said.

Sherlock watched in fascination as John began to undress.

"Stop staring at me," John said. "Turn around or something."

Sherlock gave him a look of incredulity. "Why would I want to turn around? I can't wait to see what you look like under your clothes."

"Oh my God," John muttered. He turned himself around so at least he wouldn't have to watch Sherlock watching him. Once he was down to his pants, he hesitated. "I'll have to put you in first, okay?"

Sherlock stood back up on two legs and gave John a once-over that would seem licentious if it had been made by a human. "You're still wearing something," he pointed out.

"Yes, yes, get in the tub and then I'll get in with you."

He helped Sherlock clamber over the edge and into the tub, whereupon Sherlock screeched and growled exactly like a cat who'd been dumped into the bath. Quickly, John dropped his pants and stepped into the tub, sliding down before Sherlock could catch a glimpse of any of his—private bits.

Sherlock's claws were out and John had cause to regret taking his clothes off as Sherlock tried to climb him.

"Put your claws away, dammit!" John said and was surprised when Sherlock obeyed. "Now just sit here and relax for a minute. Don't you think it feels nice?"

"It feels _wet_ ," Sherlock said, his voice accusing, but he allowed himself to be soothed and petted into docility.

"We'll just sit here a bit and then we'll get washed and rinsed."

Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look of horror. "There's _more?_ "

"Well, yes, the water doesn't just clean you by itself. You need soap."

"Show me," Sherlock said.

At which point John realized he hadn't thought this out very well, as the soap was too high for him to reach, being tucked on the shelf above since John usually took a shower. He cursed under his breath. He was going to have to stand up and he knew the moment he did, Sherlock would pepper him with questions. _Best to get it over with_ , he thought, and hauled himself up.

"John! There's something between your legs! No, there's _three_ somethings! What are they called?" Sherlock said and tilted his head up to peer closely at John's crotch.

Quickly, John grabbed the bottle of shampoo and bar of soap and sat back down in the bath before Sherlock could get another eyeful.

"John! Stand back up! I can't see anything with you sitting down like this!"

"Sherlock, those are my—my _private parts_ and it's rude to stare at them."

"But we're friends, John, and I need to _know_. What are they? What do they _do?_ "

John gave a brief and very clinical explanation of the purpose of a penis.

"Do I have one?" Sherlock asked, attempting to look between his own legs—all four of them.

"I'm sure you do, now look at me, please. At my _face_ , Sherlock. I'm going to put soap on your snout. Keep your mouth closed or you'll get soap in it and it doesn't taste good."

"Okay, but then I want to know more about this penis business."

~*~

A half hour later, John carried a limp and disgruntled Sherlock into the bedroom, stepping carefully through the swamp that had gradually grown on his bathroom floor as a result of Sherlock's splashing. John grabbed a towel on his way into the bedroom and put it on the bed where he set Sherlock.

"Don't move." John pointed his finger in Sherlock's face and Sherlock, scowling, snapped at him.

John mopped the bathroom up as best he could, using all the dirty towels and several clean ones, squeezing the water out of everything and laying them over various surfaces to dry out. He toweled himself off, and hurried back into the bedroom to dress.

Sherlock had obediently stayed on the towel, but he was on his back, head curled up, trying to peer at his belly. Noticing John, he twisted his head around and said, "John, I want you to check and see if I have a penis, too."

Automatically, John's eyes flitted to the area of Sherlock's body where he would most likely find a penis and—yep—Sherlock had a penis, too. He quickly averted his gaze. If he told Sherlock he had a penis, who knew what questions Sherlock would ask next. A knock on the door saved him.

"You can come out now!"

 _God bless Mrs. Hudson_ , John thought.

~*~

The minute John opened the bedroom door, Sherlock made complaints about something uncomfortable down low in his belly.

"You need to pee," John said and guided him to the litter box set up in the kitchen. It was three sided, much smaller than the feeding pen, and held normal cat litter.

Sherlock peed, providing a running commentary in his fascination. "John, look! Look!" (John didn't look). " _I_ have a penis just like you! See, my pee is coming out of it!"

"What," Mycroft choked out. "Have you been teaching him?" John opened his mouth to defend himself, but Mycroft held up a hand. "Forget I asked."

Giving Sherlock privacy to complete his other elimination needs, the three humans retired to the landing outside the front door. A rough schedule of who stayed with Sherlock and when was worked out and then John was finally, blessedly alone.

John was exhausted and it was barely gone six in the evening. Mycroft had said Sherlock would mostly eat and sleep. John hoped that was true, though he would have a word with Sherlock about how to eat neatly. He didn't think he could handle giving Sherlock a bath again. And he certainly didn't want to have to explain the function of any more body parts.

John went into the sitting room to check on Sherlock and found him sprawled out on the carpet, dead asleep.

"Oh, thank God," John muttered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the pains of a growing dragon hatchling.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was a liar.

In fact, he was a big, fat fucking liar, liar pants on fire.

First, Sherlock's teeth didn't come in after _three_ days—they started coming in the night of Sherlock's hatching.

And Mycroft's assurance that Sherlock would mostly eat and sleep for the first week or so?

A filthy, filthy lie.

~*~

_John! John wake up! There's something wrong with me! I think I'm dying!_

John lurched up in bed with a gasp. At least, he tried to, but there was a dragon hatchling standing on his chest.

"Sherlock," John said, voice hoarse with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Theth thomthing wong with my mouth." Sherlock rubbed his face against his paw as though trying to wipe something off. "It huth and I keep dwoling."

"Dwoling?" John hooked a hand under Sherlock's belly and neatly deposited him on the bed, relieving the weight on his chest. He sat up against the headboard and chafed his hands over his stubbled face.

Sherlock rubbed his jaw against the sheet, a mewl of distress in his voice. Then he sat on his haunches and looked up at John. "Dwole," he said and pointed with a front leg at a wet spot on the bed. John leaned over to peer at it.

It only took him a few seconds to realize what it was. "You're _drooling_?"

"Yeth, yeth! And my mouth huth and ith ithy." To underscore his point, Sherlock scoured at his mouth with a paw, his eyes screwed shut in discomfort.

"Oh, dear," John said, sympathetic. "I think you're teething."

"Theething? Whath tha' mean?"

"It means your teeth are growing in."

John didn't think a black dragon could blanch, but Sherlock managed it. His eyes were wide with fear.

"I' my mouth?" Sherlock gasped.

John bit back a chuckle. "Ah, yes. That's where one generally grows teeth. See?" John opened his mouth wide and tapped at his teeth.

In slow motion, Sherlock mimicked John, opening his mouth wide, and rubbing at his gums with his paw. "Theth no teeth the'! How can my theeth huth when I ha' no theeth?" he asked, looking wounded, as though John had lied to him.

"They're _growing_ in. You can't see them yet because they're underneath your gums. This part," John said and lifted his lip to rub his gums.

"Make it thop, John!"

"You just need something to chew on. Maybe some pain medicine." John trailed off, his eyes squinting in thought. Would pain medicine even work on a dragon? If so, what would the dosage be based on? If Sherlock were a child, John would dose him according to weight.

John looked at the time. Two o'clock in the morning. He needed Mycroft's advice. John looked at Sherlock's pained face and the copious drool. "First off, though—let's find you something to chew on."

John pulled several old flannels out of the airing cupboard and tied them together so they made a cross shape of sorts, with a big knot in the middle. He made two of them and gave one to Sherlock. The other one he dampened then tossed in the freezer. If pain medicine wasn't an option, cold might help.

"Chew on that. I'll call your brother to see if you can have some paracetamol."

In the sitting room, John picked up his phone and found the notepad where Mycroft had written down a number for emergencies alongside his personal mobile number. Behind him, he heard Sherlock making moaning noises as he chewed on his makeshift soother.

_Oh, this feels like I'm scratching inside my mouth. John, you are brilliant!_

(Unfortunately, Sherlock could still talk with his mouth full.)

John dialed the number for emergencies. "Be quiet until I get off the phone with Mycroft."

Sherlock growled at him, then trotted towards John's chair, curling up on the seat with his teething toy. The smacking, satisfied groans coming from him were distracting. And slightly disgusting, too. John grimaced as slimy dragon hatchling drool slid down Sherlock's chin and dripped onto John's chair.

Mycroft's voice startled John. "Is one of you in mortal danger?"

"Uh. No." John scratched his nose. "Not quite."

"What does _not quite_ mean, exactly?" Mycroft's diction was as crisp as if he'd been awake for hours.

"Look, he can't sleep and he's in pain because he started teething."

"Already? He's not even been out of the egg for twenty-four hours!"

"Yes, well, apparently he's an overachiever. I made him a chew toy out of some rags—"

"You _what_?"

"Hey—you can't be offended when I have to make do with what I've got to hand because _you_ provided me with the wrong information. And, _and_ —Sherlock is perfectly happy with what I've made for him, aren't you Sherlock?"

Sherlock grunted. His eyes were closed and his head was pillowed on the coils of his tail, but he hadn't stopped chewing.

Mycroft sighed with what could only be described as _flair_. "I'll provide you with all hatchling-related care items tomorrow. For now, so long as it comforts him and he can eat without pain, then whatever you've concocted over there will have to do."

"Hold on—don't hang up. The reason I called was to ask if I could give him paracetamol to help with the pain."

"Paracetamol?" Mycroft asked as though he'd never heard of it.

"Yes. I can crush it up and put it into his food or—"

"You can't give a dragon hatchling _paracetamol_!"

"Okay, well—see that's why I'm calling. I didn't want to give it to him if it was dangerous for him."

"It's not _dangerous_ ," Mycroft said as though the reason they were talking on the phone at two in the morning _wasn't_ because John needed to know that.

"All right. Then—I _can_ give it to him?"

"I suppose," Mycroft conceded with a gust of air that made it clear he was giving in against his strictest principles.

"How do I figure the dosage?"

"How should I know? You're the doctor—as you so vehemently pointed out to me yesterday."

John shouted in frustration and hung up the phone. "Fucking Mycroft," he hissed.

The issue of pain medication for dragon hatchlings was resolved when John realized Sherlock had fallen asleep. Occasionally, as he slept, he worked his jaw on the chew rag without ever dropping it from his mouth or waking up.

Fondly, John watched him. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to take his human form, but there was much to be recommended in having a small dragon as one's best friend.

~*~

An hour later, Sherlock's whimpered and woke completely. John didn't need a telepathic or even verbal directive to know that it was his teeth that woke him. John took the chew rag Sherlock had been using, tossed it into the freezer, and brought out the frozen one. For the rest of the night, he alternated them as each one warmed up. To catch the—frankly _enormous_ —amount of drool Sherlock was producing, John made a bib of sorts out of an old t-shirt, sliding Sherlock's head through the neck and then folding the rest of the t-shirt up and tucking it inside the arm holes. Sherlock ended up looking like one of those rescue Saint Bernard's with the cylindrical attachment to their collars.

By morning, Sherlock and John were both exhausted. Sherlock had fed without his earlier enthusiasm, and ate only a fourth of what he was supposed to. This meant John had to feed him more often and resorted to bribery to get Sherlock to eat. To solve the problem, John turned to bribing Sherlock with a treat. Like a drug dealer trying to get a new buyer hooked, he gave him a sugar cube to suck on first, and when Sherlock moaned and hummed in closed-eye pleasure, John promised he could have one after every meal— _if_ he ate at least half of what he was supposed to and ate it more often. Of course, John had to emphasize to Sherlock that they could never, ever tell Mycroft that John had given him sugar cubes before he was even twenty-four hours old.

Morning took so long to arrive that John thought he and Sherlock might perish from exhaustion and an abundance of drool before John could do something about Sherlock's teething that didn't involve winging it with the items he had on hand. As soon as John knew Mrs. Hudson would be awake, he took Sherlock downstairs and knocked on her door.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but can you watch him for a bit? His teeth are coming in and he's been up all night, miserable. I'm going to run out and get some teething soothers and children's paracetamol."

"Oh, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson said and took Sherlock out of John's arms.

John handed her the two teething rags he'd made. Sherlock was limp in her arms, drool soaking his homemade bib. Of course, Sherlock immediately turned and rubbed his mouth against her robe, smearing it with drool. Mrs. Hudson grimaced and John made a face in sympathy.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, yeah? I'm really sorry about this."

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand in the air and said, "Oh, John, don't worry about me. It may have been a long time since I cared for a dragon hatchling, but I remember what it's like. Mycroft was an absolute terror!"

When she laughed, John just stared at her in confusion. "You mean, you—"

"Oh, yes. My family has been caring for Holmes hatchlings for generations." She leaned forward as though imparting a great secret. "The retirement plan is fantastic."

John scowled. "That bastard didn't tell me about a retirement plan!"

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips in disapproval. "I'll give you his assistant's number. She'll make sure you get set up properly for your wages and pension."

"Wages, too?" John cried.

John had been wishing he could spend more time at home with Sherlock and if Mrs. Hudson was right about John being due a paycheck and pension from Mycroft, then he could cut back on his hours at work. He'd still have a couple of days a week in the A&E to keep himself in practice without worrying about money. (Or what trouble Sherlock was getting to while he wasn't home.)

The thought of this was why John walked out the door without paying attention and slammed straight into the chest of the tallest and burliest man he'd ever seen.

"Mr. Watson," the behemoth said, putting his hands on John's shoulders to steady him. The man's voice was so deep it was like a growl.

" _Doctor_ Watson," John said absently, mouth agape. He had to crane his neck to look up at the man. He must've been nearly a foot taller than John.

"My name is Chatsworth."

"Uh," John said. "Okay?"

Chatsworth's eyebrows rose in confusion. "Mr. Holmes sent me," Chatsworth said, gesturing at the shiny grey van idling at the curb behind him. "I've got supplies for the dragonet. I'm also to help you in any way you need for the next few weeks, until the dragonet can change into his human form."

A slow smile spread on John's face. "In _any_ way? Even if it's cleaning up dragon poop?"

"In _any_ way, sir," Chatsworth said with a nod. "Even if it's cleaning up dragon poop."

 _Who is this man and why is he making you happy?_ Sherlock demanded.

John had forgotten the bond with him and Sherlock stretched beyond the confines of their flat. He struggled to work two conversations through his sleep-deprived brain.

"Huh. Wow! Okay, what days and times are you available to help?"

_It's someone your brother sent to help us out until you become human. Be quiet a minute so I can talk to him._

"Twenty-four seven, sir."

_We don't need any help! We have each other—we don't need anybody else!_

John groaned in exasperation and covered his face with his hands. Having someone else in one's head made it difficult to carry on a conversation.

"Problem, sir?" Chatsworth asked.

"Oh, not you, mate. My dragon's trying to carry on a conversation with me from inside the building."

"If you tell me which flat is yours, sir, I'll begin unloading the van and carrying everything up so you can see to your hatchling."

"Oh, good, good. Great, actually! It's flat B."

Chatsworth stared at John. John stared back, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"I'll need you to move out of the doorway, sir."

"Oh! Right! Right. Well—" John looked up at Chatsworth's amused brown eyes and gestured over his shoulder. "I've got a tired and cranky hatchling to see to."

Finally Chatsworth's face changed—just a twitch of his lips, but John would count it as a smile. "Of course, sir."

With that, John turned and headed towards Mrs. Hudson's door so he could take back his surly dragonet and give him a cuddle.

 _It had better be a very,_ very _long cuddle_ , Sherlock grumbled. _No complaining about the drool or my tail getting in your way, either!_

 _Whatever you want, dear one_ , John said and lifted his hand to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door.

Sherlock was hovering in the air behind Mrs. Hudson when she opened the door. She said, "See, Sherlock! You worried for nothing. There's John—I'm sure it's going to be fine."

"Thath wha' you thay about evwything!" Sherlock said with a belligerent pout at Mrs. Hudson.

John fell back a step and grunted at the impact when Sherlock flew straight into him. He wrapped his front legs around John's neck and his tail around John's waist.

Mrs. Hudson said, "You can bring him by anytime you need, John."

"No! I don' wanna thtay with you. I only want Zhon."

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a look. John said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

 _You're not allowed to like anyone else more than me_ , Sherlock said as John mounted the stairs to their flat. _Especially not someone sent by my brother!_

John used the bottom of Sherlock's homemade bib to wipe some of the drool off his jaw. "Don't worry, love. There's nobody out there more charming or brilliant or perfectly suited to my personality than you."

Sherlock purred and affectionately butted his head up against John's chin. _I'm glad we both understand that._

And for the rest of the day, as promised, John did not complain about the drool. (Although he did complain—just _once_ though—about Sherlock's tail, but only because he almost tripped over it.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chatsworth to the rescue.

* * *

John carried a drooling but affectionate Sherlock into the flat and through the kitchen to the bedroom where he lowered him onto the bed. John sat down beside him.

"We need to talk," John said.

_We don't talk often enough to satisfy you?_

John chuckled. He'd forgotten Sherlock's naivete when it came to human social interactions. After all, the first time he'd communicated with another person was Tuesday and that was only two days ago.

"That's what people say when there's something important to discuss, usually something the other person isn't aware of. It's an announcement of sorts, so that the other person knows they need to be serious and listen."

_I'm listening_ , Sherlock said and then curled himself up in John's lap, his drooling face lifted towards John's.

"That man you heard me talking to, the one your brother sent? His name is Chatsworth. He's—"

At that moment, there was a grunt from the living room, the sound of someone setting down a large burden.

_An intruder!_ Sherlock's wings spread without warning, smacking John in the face, the wing joint talons narrowly missing his face.

"Watch it, Sherlock! You almost scratched me with your hooks!"

Sherlock ignored him. He was standing on John's legs, his full wingspan spread open so that John couldn't see beyond the thin black leather of his stretched wings. There was a low hissing sound coming from Sherlock. It was of a different timbre and intensity than the usual hiss he used to voice displeasure.

Slowly it dawned on John that Sherlock was trying to _protect_ him. He wanted to immediately pull Sherlock up into a tight hug and tell him how much he loved him and what a sweet, brave, adorable dragon he was.

However, he doubted that Sherlock—who was, after all, in the midst of using himself as a shield against a perceived threat to John—would appreciate being hauled up into an embrace and told he was _adorable_.

"Sherlock, love, that's just Chatsworth. He's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Sherlock continued to ignore John, the hissing beginning to morph into a growl in Sherlock's chest. It was a big sound coming out of someone so small. John began to fear that Sherlock would launch himself after Chatsworth. John had yet to see his offensive capabilities, but according to Mycroft even a dragon hatchling could do some damage.

Frustrated at being ignored, John stood up, dumping Sherlock out of his lap. Sherlock fell onto his back with a squawk.

"I'm sorry, dear, but you weren't listening to me. Chatsworth isn't going to hurt us. He's here to help us."

Sherlock righted himself with a sullen shake of his body which rippled all the way through his tail. _We don't need help_. He hopped back onto the bed and sat down, putting space between him and John.

"Well," John said carefully, sitting down again. "Although I love you _more than anyone else in the world_ —I hadn't realized how hard it was to care for a dragon hatchling—"

Sherlock gave him a baleful look.

"—even though I could _never_ _regret you coming into my life_. There's things you need and information _I_ need that can't be found anywhere except from someone who knows about dragons. And if something happens—like with this teething business—I can't even run out and get you something because I can't leave you by yourself."

_Mrs. Hudson knows about dragons. And you can call Mycroft like you did last night._

"Well, yes, that's all true, but it's Mycroft who sent Chatsworth over here to help us. I know you won't like having him around at first, but you'll get used to him. Chatsworth can answer all my dragon-related questions and he said he would help in any way, which means he can do all those chores that make me grumpy and tired and _that_ will leave more time for you and I to do the things we enjoy!"

That narrow-eyed gaze left John apprehensive. _Like cuddling?_

"Like cuddling."

_And answering my questions even if they make you go all red in the face and refuse to look at me?_

"Uh, well, that's not something _I_ enjoy, as you know—"

_Then he must go._ Sherlock turned away from John and moved like he was going to get off the bed.

"— _but!_ Okay, _but_ —even though I don't enjoy it, I don't like to discourage curiosity."

_Does that mean you'll stop saying_ that's private, Sherlock _or_ that's an inappropriate conversation _and answer my questions and discuss them?_

The allure of having Chatsworth around to clean out the litter box, and remove all the blood and assorted viscera from the feeding pen, and watch Sherlock so John could leave the house for more than five minutes without Sherlock freaking out was just too strong to waste on avoiding a few uncomfortable conversations. _For heaven's sake, you're a doctor! How can you be squeamish about discussing penises?_

"Okay, yeah. Yep, that's what that means."

Sherlock's face lit up, and he wrapped his tail around John's waist, a gesture John realized was one way Sherlock showed his affection.

"There's _one_ more thing, though," John said.

Sherlock's tail abruptly withdrew. He slumped over on his back, all four limbs splayed, tail hanging limply over the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling. Sherlock was particularly talented when it came to the dramatic slump. But Sherlock was also tired, in pain, and had just agreed to have a stranger in their home every day. John himself was tempted to fall back on the bed in his own slump.

Sounding weary, Sherlock said, _Go on then. What's the one more thing?_

"Mrs. Hudson said the Holmes family pays all their employees, including the people who take care of their eggs and hatchlings and other dragon-human interactions. Now, I'm not Mycroft's employee and I _absolutely_ would take care of you for _no money at all_ —but if I don't accept Mycroft's money, that means I have to keep working as much as I already do so I can pay rent and keep the lights on and buy food and other very important things. If I do accept Mycroft's money, then I'll only have to work a couple of days a week, which means we get to spend even _more_ time together!"

_If Mycroft is paying you, then why work at all?_

"Uh." John should have foreseen this question. "Hm. Well, you see, I love being a doctor. Remember when we first met and I told you how important doctors were?"

Sherlock nodded. John knew Sherlock liked thinking John was important. He felt it added to his own prestige. John shamelessly exploited that.

"Don't you want me to do important work? Saving people's lives and making a difference in the world? When you're human and you introduce me to people and they ask _oh, what does John do_ would you want to say _he sits at home and takes care of me?_ I mean, that would make me look like I was your employee instead of your best friend."

Sherlock rolled over and gracefully pushed up so he was sitting on his haunches.

_You can work two days a week. That's all I'm willing to sacrifice to save lives._

Biting back a laugh, John said, "That sounds fair."

In response, Sherlock's tail wrapped back around John's waist.

He rubbed under Sherlock's pearly white chin until Sherlock began to purr. "Do you want to see all the things Chatsworth has brought in? He had a van with him—that's like a really big car for hauling lots of very interesting things around."

Sherlock perked up and threw himself off the bed, using his wings to keep from smacking onto the floor, and trotted off to the sitting room. If there was one thing about Sherlock that John could always count on, it was his avid curiosity.

~*~

  Introducing Sherlock to Chatsworth wasn't nearly as disastrous as John had anticipated. Sherlock stared blankly at Chatsworth and nodded his head in a way not unlike a king acknowledging a lesser person.

"Guess you're in, mate," John said, clapping him on the back.

"Ah, it's all right. He'll come around. We're very possessive, dragons."

John looked at Chatsworth in astonishment. " _You're_ a dragon, too! That's bloody _awesome_!"

Chatsworth's cheeks reddened in a charming way at John's reaction.

Sherlock turned around and glared at John with a hiss. _He's not as awesome as I am! I'm the best dragon there is!_

"Yes, darling, nobody can compare. You are the only dragon for me," John said, reaching down to rub his knuckles along Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock gave Chatsworth a triumphant and haughty glance and then turned and began digging stuff out of the boxes he'd brought up.

John looked around to find Chatsworth had disappeared. He reappeared a few minutes later balancing two more boxes and set them down next to the first two.

"What is all this?" John asked, peeking at the books Sherlock had pulled out of one of the boxes. "I thought he was just sending teething supplies."

"Mr. Holmes gave me a list of what to bring. I assumed you knew. Should I take it back?" Chatsworth looked very unhappy at the idea of taking all the boxes back downstairs.

"No, I just—is there more?"

Chatsworth grimaced and then nodded. "Sorry, sir, but there's a few more boxes, a portable freezer and a whiteboard with an easel."

John's mouth fell open and he scowled. "What on earth was that bossy bastard thinking?"

"There's a note here for you, Dr. Watson. I haven't opened it, but perhaps it explains everything?" Chatsworth dug into his pocket and brought out a crumpled envelope, which he handed to John. He gestured over his shoulder. "Should I bring the rest in or…?"

John ripped into the envelope. Of course, both the sheet of stationery and the envelope were made from heavy cream paper. There was a stylized _H_ at the top of the paper. John began reading:

_John,_

_Since you are unfortunately ignorant of the facts of hatchling rearing, I'm sending Chatsworth along to help. Along with him, I've sent everything else you'll need to help Sherlock grow, not only physically but mentally as well, until he can change into his human form._

_There are several books that will take you through a condensed but simple method of teaching Sherlock how to read. There are also some maths books. He must be able to read a complex text by the end of his hatchling stage, as well as know arithmetic through multiplication, division, and fractions._

_There is a whiteboard and accessories for you to create a classroom environment. You will devote at least three hours a day to teaching. In addition, you will read to Sherlock from the books I've provided while he follows along._

_The books cover a variety of disciplines. If he begins to show an affinity for a particular discipline, you may search for other books on the subject and submit them to me for approval. If they're appropriate, I'll have them delivered to your flat._

_You may think me harsh, but this is the way Holmes hatchlings have always been raised. He needs to be prepared for living in the human world—taking dragon form is only an occasional recreational activity. We are, in all ways that matter, humans._

_Let me make this clear—under no circumstances should Sherlock be allowed to use the internet or watch television._

_Thank you,_

_MH_

Sherlock's head snapped up from the box he'd been investigating. _John, I want to watch television. And then I want to use the internet. What's the internet?_

John looked at Chatsworth askance. "Are you supposed to spy on us? Like, report everything we do—or don't do—to Mycroft?"

Chatsworth cocked his eyebrow. "I was ordered to report back to him, but I can assure you my reports will be nothing but glowing, Dr. Watson. I think the way Holmes hatchlings are treated is a bit, hm—unhealthy. Their emotional growth is ignored in favor of intellectual growth and the emphasis on dry academics really isn't necessary. Yes, you should teach him to read and do sums and what not, but dragons are clever and pick things up very quickly. You and Sherlock just keep doing what you're doing and he'll be fine."

"I think I'm a bit touched, mate. Sounds like you've got my back."

"Well, I must confess that when I was first given this assignment I wasn't very thrilled. But now that I've met you, I'm looking forward to getting to know you. And Sherlock, of course."

Chatsworth looked down at Sherlock who had sidled up to John and wrapped the end of his tail around John's ankle. _I want to watch television._

"Let's get the stuff to help with teething," John said. "Then we can watch a little bit of television."

"If I might offer a bit of advice?"

John looked up at Chatsworth, curious. "Of course. I welcome all the advice you can give."

"Don't get into the habit of answering out loud when he's talking through the bond. You'll still have the telepathic ability even when he's human, and it looks odd if others can't hear half of the conversation you're having. Another bad habit is to spend too much time conversing telepathically. It also looks odd when out around other humans. We have to do our best not to pique curiosity in unknowing humans. So, really, these things help protect us from exposure."

"That makes good sense. Thanks for that, Chatsworth. See? You're already earning your keep."

"Oh, believe me—Mr. Holmes is footing the bill for this and I'm also getting paid. Which reminds me—I'll be living here until Sherlock has settled comfortably into human form. I've taken the upstairs bedroom, which Mr. Holmes leased from your landlady—Mrs. Hudson if I recall? Come knock on my door at any time. Oh, and let me give you my mobile number just in case."

"Wow. You've really got everything covered!"

"This isn't my first mentoring gig."

"Oh, that's what it's called, eh? Mentoring?"

"Well, babysitter or litter changer just don't have the same cachet." Chatsworth gave him a cheeky smile.

John threw his head back and laughed.

_John! Television!_

"Ah, yes. If you can point me to the teething supplies?" he asked Chatsworth.

Chatsworth pulled a small paper bag out of a much larger one but didn't immediately hand it over. "I just want you to know that one of Mr. Holmes's lower level employees was sent out to get these things. He was told it was for teething, and of course he assumed human. I have no idea why the task was given to someone who doesn't know dragons. I looked through it and I'm not entirely sure that any of it will be very helpful."

With that, he gave John the bag. John looked inside and found two teething toys—the kind made of soft rubber with a liquid inside that froze quickly—a tube of oral numbing ointment in strawberry flavor, and a bottle of liquid children's paracetamol.

When he looked up, Chatsworth was grimacing. "Like I said—I'm not sure how helpful that will be."

"Well, I'll just give it a try," John said, also dubious. "C'mon, then, Sherlock—into the kitchen."

He took a step towards the kitchen and tripped, barely catching himself from face planting by grabbing at the kitchen wall. John turned and glared at Sherlock.

_Sorry_ , Sherlock said, quickly withdrawing his tail from around John's ankle.

John's glare didn't soften. "Please don't do that when I'm trying to walk."

_How did I know you were going to walk? Perhaps you might look down before attempting to walk and tell me your intentions so I could withdraw my tail._

"Or you could just not put your tail around my leg when I'm standing up since usually standing leads to walking."

_Well, sitting leads to standing so are you suggesting I'm not_ allowed _to show my affection?_

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, just get in here," John said and then slapped the bag down on the kitchen table.

John took out the bottle of liquid pain medicine and drew up a dose into the syringe. He was quite good at guessing weight just by look so he was confident the dosage was correct. And anyway, better to give him too much than not enough or it negated the use of medicine in the first place. He bent over Sherlock. "Open up."

Sherlock sniffed at the syringe and then shook his head. _Smells awful_.

"Yes, but it will help sooth the pain. And we'll watch television after this, yeah?"

Slowly, Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyebrow ridges drawn together in suspicion. John depressed the syringe. Sherlock closed his mouth and for a few seconds, John thought he'd swallowed it. Then Sherlock's eyes went wide and, without warning, he spat the medicine all over the floor and, consequently, on John's shoes.

_That was awful!_

"Fine!" John said, tossing the syringe and bottle back into the bag. He grabbed the baby soothers and threw them into the sitting room. "Chew on those or suffer! I don't care!"

The look of betrayal on Sherlock's face made John immediately regretful. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Chatsworth interrupted him.

"I sort of couldn't help overhearing you guys," Chatsworth said, coming into the kitchen with an insulated cooler. "I knew that stuff wouldn't really help so I brought something that I've always found helpful for teething hatchlings, including myself."

Chatsworth set the cooler on the table and unzipped it. Both John and Sherlock edged closer. "These are raw chicken bone legs and I froze a dozen for you, Sherlock. They stay cold longer than rubber or cloth. Plus, as their teeth come in, they can eat the bones. Since the bones are uncooked, we don't have to worry about splinters of bone getting stuck in their gullet or anything."

With that, Chatsworth held out one of the chicken bones to Sherlock, who sniffed at it and then cautiously flicked his tongue out a few times. Sherlock slid a gimlet eye up at John and then snatched the bone out of Chatsworth's hand. With his tail corkscrewed up in the air and the tip snapping back and forth, he headed to the sitting room and stopped before John's chair. From there he gave John a challenging stare.

_I'm going to get chicken bone drool all over your chair so you might want to put something down to protect it._

John wasted no time grabbing a couple bath towels. He spread them out on the seat of his chair.

Sherlock pulled at the homemade bib. _And take this thing off me. It's sopping wet and uncomfortable._

There was some complicated maneuvering involved in taking it off of Sherlock since he refused to drop the bone. John took the shirt to the kitchen trash.

_And you can get rid of these things_ , Sherlock added, disdainfully pushing the baby soothers away with the claw of one foot as though they would pollute him if they touched his skin.

"I'm sorry, love," John said, picking up the offending items. "I shouldn't have said those things to you. But, you shouldn't have spit the medicine on my shoes, either."

_I didn't spit it on your shoes—at least I didn't mean to. I meant to spit it on the floor._

"Yeah, I'm not sure that's any better."

_Well, where should I have spit it?_ Sherlock asked incredulously.

"You shouldn't have spit it at all, you little monster. You were supposed to _swallow_ it."

Sherlock shrugged. _I'm not doing that so don't bother to give it to me again_.

With that, he hopped up onto John's chair and settled in with his bone. Chatsworth had been right—that bone seemed to give Sherlock relief from both the pain and drooling.

John turned to his new dragon-rearing partner. "Let me help you bring the rest of the stuff upstairs and then I'm taking a goddamn nap."

"Don't worry about helping out, sir. Go on and get your rest. Sherlock is safe in my hands."

_But is_ he _safe in_ my _hands?_ Sherlock asked.

And even though Sherlock's voice was without malice, John had an ominous feeling. But sleep beckoned and he gave into its call.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When my firstborn was teething, none of the advice I was given worked. I'd read in a baby book called, appropriately, _The Baby Book_ that a frozen chicken leg bone worked wonders. Obviously, the book said to strip it of anything the baby could choke on. My nipples were being gnawed to shreds, so I was willing to give it a go. It was the only thing that ever worked for my son. When my daughter was teething, she had her thumb, so all I had to deal with in her case was copious amounts of drool.


	7. Chapter 7

When John woke two hours later from his nap, the flat was quiet. Sherlock hadn't come to bother him while he slept. This, John knew, was a disaster.

"Oh, please don't have murdered him," John muttered as he raced into the sitting room. The scene he came upon there left him frozen in shock.

Sherlock and Chatsworth were sitting next to each other on the couch while Chatsworth read out loud from _Hello!_ magazine. Sherlock was sitting quietly, enraptured, absently gnawing on a chicken leg bone. Chatsworth's voice, which was deeper even than Sherlock's, was made for narrating.

Sherlock dropped his chicken bone in order to speak. "Why are Printh Williamth's children in line to be monarch before Printh Harry? Thath thtupid! They're jutht babieth! They can't rule!" Sherlock asked, looking up at Chatsworth.

Sherlock's diction sounded a lot better to John. Maybe John had been making it worse by letting Sherlock speak to him mentally rather than verbally.

"Well," Chatsworth said slowly, "it's what they call the rules of Succession. It's both law and a matter of tradition. In other words, it's always been done that way, so…" Chatsworth shrugged.

"Well, it maketh no thense. Ith totally illogical! Who puth a baby on the throne to rule a whole country!"

Chatsworth's mouth opened, then closed. He frowned. "When you put it like that, yes, it does seem rather counterintuitive. Generally, if the new monarch is underage, they have a Regent, someone who essentially makes the decisions and acts as monarch. Like a placeholder. Except one with the power of the crown."

"Well, then why don't they jutht make that perthon the King!"

"It's all back to the rules of Succession."

Sherlock shook his head. "They're thtupid rulth. No wonder thith country ith falling apart." With that, he picked his chicken bone back up and gave it a good gumming.

Chatsworth laughed and John took that moment to step into the sitting room. The minute Sherlock saw him, he cried, "John!" and launched himself into the air from the couch. A second later, John had an armful of happy dragonet, and a tail wrapped tightly around his waist.

"I see Chatsworth has been using unconventional methods to teach you about our country?"

Sherlock had hung onto his chicken bone in his mad flight to John. He poked his head out over John's arms and dropped the chicken bone onto the floor. John made a sound of distress, and opened his mouth to chastise Sherlock, but Sherlock started talking.

"Firtht we read about how to treat thunburn to prevent aging and which mathcarath give your lasheth the motht volume. Oh and we read lot of articleths about food. Chathworth loveth cooking. So he'th going to be cooking for uth!"

Over Sherlock's shoulder, John saw Chatsworth trying not to laugh. John had to bite back his own laughter.

"And you found all that interesting?"

"Oh, yeth," Sherlock said solemnly. "Therth tho much out there to learn, John! The magazine Chathworth was reading is _thixty-eight_ pageth long! That's _thixty-eight_ pageth of thingth I didn't know before!"

"Well, I'm glad you're excited, seeing as how you and I are meant to go through those stacks of books over there before you become human."

Chatsworth cleared his throat, catching John's attention. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but just so you know, it's not good form to say that dragons _become_ human. That implies we're animals when not in our human form. Most dragons will take offense to what you said. "

"Oh, mate, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, no! You don't have to apologize. That's why I'm here—to let you know these things. But I don't want you feeling discouraged when I correct you because, to be honest, bonds like yours and Sherlock's are quite rare and I'd hate to put you off dragons."

"Rare?" John asked. "That makes me feel like the ordinary bloke in a movie who's actually The One, destined to save humanity with some power he didn't even know he had."

"I don't think you're dethtined to thave humanity, John," Sherlock said.

"Is that right?" John asked with a laugh. "That's good then. I've got enough to be going on with having you around." He rubbed his knuckles along Sherlock's cheek so Sherlock would know he was only teasing.

"Well, I only gave you two dayth a week to thaving liveth, and I can't imagine that would be enough time to thave everyone in the whole world. Exactly how many people _are_ there in the world?"

"There he goes with the questions!" John said, glad that this one, at least, didn't involve penises. "I'll let Chatsworth discuss world population with you. I've got a phone call to make to your brother."

Sherlock scowled, the tip of his tail snapping back and forth in agitation. Unfortunately, that meant it was slapping John in the arm. "You jutht woke up, though! I mith you. I don't want you to go talk to thombody elth when I've only had a minute with you!"

Chatsworth shook his head with a smile. "You know that whole thing about dragons hoarding treasure?"

"Yeah?" John said.

"The hoarding bit is spot on. Our urge is to hoard anything we think of as ours and that includes people."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lord, I'm guessing every time I want to go out and have a pint with friends or go on a date, I'm going to have a fight on my hands?"

Chatsworth tilted his head back and forth. "Well, it's something you have to just teach isn't acceptable. I guess it's a bit like separation anxiety in human babies, only we don't outgrow it."

"You're not leaving thith flat without me," Sherlock said to John.

"Well, love, I'll have to. I've got work, remember? And sometimes a bloke just wants time to himself."

Sherlock frowned so hard, his eyebrow ridges nearly touched each other. "Why would you want to be by yourthelf when you have me?"

Chatsworth and John both broke out into laughter, embarrassing poor Sherlock who huddled against John's chest, face hidden.

"Oh, my dear, don't be upset. We just thought what you said was cute!"

 _I'm not cute_ , Sherlock said sullenly. _I'm a_ dragon. _I'm fierce and deadly, a terror to behold!_

"You're a terror, all right," John said and kissed the top of his head. "All thirty pounds of you a right proper menace."

~*~

_"What is it now?"_

"Hello to you, too," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

There was a huff from the other end of the phone. _" I'm very busy, so if you could please tell me why you are calling?"_

"I'm calling because I was told there was a paycheck and a pension I'm supposed to be receiving."

_"I see you and Mrs. Hudson have been comparing notes."_

"Yeah, we did. Not telling me was a really dick move on your part."

 _"I thought you were Sherlock's_ friend _, John. It's rather cold-hearted for you to expect payment for taking care of a friend in need. What would poor Sherlock feel if he found out you were being paid to be his friend?"_

"I don't know—let me ask him," John said. He popped off the bed and poked his head into the kitchen where Sherlock was happily sucking down his food. "Hey, Sherlock! How do you feel about Mycroft paying me while I take care of you?"

Sherlock lifted his head, his snout covered in gore. "You detherve to get paid for putting up with _Mycroft_. Pluth, I'd rather you be home more often."

To Mycroft, John said, "Did you catch all that? So should I give you my bank info or is there paperwork for me to sign?"

 _"I'll email you the relevant documents,"_ Mycroft said begrudgingly.

"Don't forget the pension," John said with a grin.

_"Don't get greedy. The pension is only for those who commit their life to serve the Holmes family."_

"Does committing my life to serve _Sherlock_ Holmes count or do I have to, you know, take care of any Holmes dragons who come along?"

 _"Congratulations. You understand the meaning of committing one's life_. _Of course it means you must take care of any dragons who come along_ within your lifetime." There was a pause and then, more quietly, Mycroft said, _"However—you may receive the pension provided you agree to certain parameters. I'm not yet sure what those parameters are. I'll need to think on it. Once I have it written up, I'll send my assistant to discuss it with you. Oh, and John—don't sign anything without reading it."_

"What is it with Holmeses and ominous pronouncements?" John hissed to himself. "It must be genetic."

~*~

All seemed to be going well with Sherlock's teething troubles when he and John went to bed on Thursday night. But shortly after midnight, John woke to the sound of coughing and retching. Before he could get Sherlock to the bathroom, the poor dragonet started vomiting. Once he stopped, John snatched him up and took him to the bathroom and laid him on the tile floor. John stripped out of his pajamas, which were stained with vomit, and tossed them into the corner. He was about to head into the bedroom to strip the soiled sheets when he looked more closely at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were drooping and glazed; John immediately recognized this as a sign of fever, but he wasn't sure if it worked the same for dragons. Maybe Sherlock was just really tired. John asked him if he wanted any water, but Sherlock just shook his head once, without even lifting it off the floor, and closed his eyes.

That was when John began to officially worry. He put on clean pajamas and raced up the stairs to the second floor to fetch Chatsworth. Despite having been asleep, Chatsworth came down looking unfairly fresh and energetic.

Chatsworth followed him downstairs and into the bathroom, listening while John described what happened. In the bathroom, he knelt by Sherlock's head and coaxed him into opening his mouth. He ran a finger along both the top and bottom of Sherlock's gums.

"It's his teeth," Chatsworth said when he stood up and went to the sink to wash his hands. "The entire top and bottom set have broken through the gums."

"So these are normal symptoms?"

"Not this severe. I think his body is working harder than it should to push his teeth out, almost like it wants to accomplish in twenty-four hours what takes most hatchlings upwards of a week or more. He's not even supposed to start getting his teeth until his third day out of the egg, and then it takes five to seven days for them to come in completely."

"So, should we be worried?" John asked, sitting down next to Sherlock so he could pet him. He could feel the fever through Sherlock's hide.

Chatsworth shook his head, but his face showed some reserve. "I think these symptoms will resolve themselves once his teeth come in. The fever, the nausea, the listlessness—I think any dragon would experience that if they tried to condense ten days of physical growth into one."

"My poor, sweet dragon," John said, picking Sherlock up and gently laying him in his lap. He looked back up at Chatsworth. "You said it could take five to seven days for his teeth to come all the way in. Does that mean he's going to feel like this the whole time?"

Chatsworth kept his eyes on Sherlock as he spoke. "I'm not a doctor of dragons so don't take this as gospel, but I would be surprised if it took more than six hours for his teeth to finish coming in. Again, I could be wrong."

"But you don't think you are," John said.

"No, I don't think I am."

"What do we do now?"

"Make him as comfortable as possible, which means—sorry, Sherlock, but needs must—getting him to take some pain medicine. Other than that, make him drink as much water as he will. Like I said, I think this is all going to be over by tomorrow morning so until then, we don't need to worry about him not eating. After that point, though, the focus needs to be back on eating and resting as much as possible."

"I don't know why bloody Mycroft sent all the reading and teaching materials when he knows full well that Sherlock's supposed to be eating and sleeping."

"Mr. Holmes is a genius and comes from a family of geniuses. I imagine he assumes Sherlock will be just as brilliant as the rest of them. Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes tends to conflate being brilliant with not having to give in to such weaknesses as eating and sleeping."

Despite the situation, John found himself laughing. "That sounds exactly like him."

"Well, and, I hate to say this, but it's clear that some of that is a natural result of being so brilliant. I mean, look at Sherlock. His curiosity sometimes supersedes his need for food and rest. but unlike Mr. Holmes he's not _forcing_ himself to stay awake. I mean, he's not, right?"

John shook his head. "No, when he's tired, he crashes wherever he happens to be. He doesn't try to fight it."

"Well, at least we don't have to fight with him on that issue."

"Yet," John said.

"Yet," Chatsworth echoed. "I think the Holmes brain is in constant battle with their bodies, always trying to subsume it. Look at this teeth issue. Instead of having to spend a week taking the slow route to a full set of teeth, his brain goes _hey, body, if we get this teething thing out of the way, we'll have more time to be brilliant._ "

John barked out a laugh, but then looked down at Sherlock and sighed. He was still soothing Sherlock with long, light sweeps of his hand from head to rump. "I hope he doesn't end up like his prat of a brother."

"I don't think you need to worry. He's got you to keep him anchored on earth."

John channeled Sherlock by preening at the compliment.

~*~

From then until five o'clock Friday morning, John and Chatsworth worked together to ease poor Sherlock's suffering. For the pain and fever, John ground up ibuprofen and mixed it with sugar and water, a concoction that Sherlock greedily swallowed. When Sherlock asked for _all_ his water to have sugar in it, John agreed but only while he was poorly. Once he was better, it was back to plain old tap water.

Occasionally, Sherlock would fall asleep without warning, right in the middle of whatever he was saying or doing. It was frightening the first time, but every time after that, John couldn't help but laugh when it happened.

By early Friday morning, an exhausted John snuggled into clean sheets with an equally exhausted but clear-eyed Sherlock, the proud owner of a full set of dragon teeth.

"I hope you don't go through this when your adult teeth come in," John said without thinking.

"What?" Sherlock cried. "You mean, this is going to happen _again_?"

John was immediately wide awake. "No, no, no! It doesn't for humans so it shouldn't for dragons!"

Sherlock's distress remained high so John forced himself back out of bed and up the stairs to consult Chatsworth—who'd just gotten into his own bed—as to whether this was it for Sherlock as far as teeth went or if he would eventually lose his "baby" teeth in favor of the adult set.

Chatsworth chuckled wearily when he heard. "No, we only get the one set of teeth. If we lose one, another one grows in its place, but tell him it's a completely painless process."

John carried the news back down to Sherlock, who was visibly relieved. Back under the duvet, with Sherlock's small body tucked against him, John was about to drift off when Sherlock spoke.

"John, do you think my teeth are handsome? I didn't get to see them in the mirror yet. Do you think they're more handsome when compared to other dragons' teeth?"

Without opening his eyes, John said, "Sherlock, after what we just went through, you better have the most goddamn beautiful set of teeth of any creature in the world."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a rough few months in which I felt no urge to write. I'm feeling better and the writing itch allowed me to finally finish Chapter 8. My poor little Dragon!Sherlock. He's been so eager for his first time flying for so long and I left him languishing for months!

* * *

Sherlock was a week old when John had to go back to work. He hadn't yet talked to his supervisor about his need to go part time and he was anxious about the meeting. He was trying to get out the door, mentally rehearsing what he would say to his boss when he got to work.

Sherlock was trying desperately to get John to stay home. "What if Mycroft steals me away while you're gone?"

John's anxiety had reached a peak. "Sherlock, if you're bloody brother wanted you, he would've come and got you before now."

Sherlock's tail wrapped around his body forlornly. "You mean Mycroft doesn't want me?"

John sighed, irritated at himself for being so insensitive and irritated at Sherlock for being so insecure. He needed to reassure Sherlock, and not just because he could feel Sherlock's sorrow through the link. Sherlock's whole life was centered on John for the week he'd been out of his egg and now John was leaving him behind.

Chatsworth hovered in the kitchen, clearly wanting to help, but John waved him off. Then he reached down and picked Sherlock up. As usual, Sherlock's tail coiled around John's waist. John rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's both as a sign of affection and to reassure him.

"My dear, sometimes I forget that you're still learning the nuances of the English language. When I said _if he wanted you_ , I only meant that if he had a plan to steal you away, he would've already done so. And anyway," he said in gentle admonition, tapping Sherlock on the nose, "I know you're not really worried Mycroft is going to come get you. You're just trying to convince me to stay home."

Sherlock tucked his face into John's neck and his voice came out muffled. "But you're going to be gone for so many hours and I won't even be able to talk to you with my mind. What if our connection breaks?"

At that, John looked up at Chatsworth, uncertain. Chatsworth came to stand beside them.

"Sherlock, once the bond is made, it can't be broken until one of you dies."

Sherlock pulled his face out of John's neck, staring up at him wide-eyed. All his limbs tightened around John, his tail squeezing John's middle with surprising strength. "Oh _no,_ John! What if you _die_?"

John gave Chatsworth a flat glare over Sherlock's head and mouthed _thanks a lot_. Chatsworth grimaced sheepishly while also struggling not to laugh.

"I'm not going to die," John said gently.

Sherlock's body was tense with anxiety, nearly shaking in John's arms. "You don't know that! You can't see the future!" There was a pause, a loosening of Sherlock's muscles, then he tilted his head to the side in curiosity. " _Can_ you see the future?"

Over Sherlock's head, John could see Chatsworth's eyes bright with merriment. When he looked back at Sherlock, he could feel his eyes brimming with affection for his little dragon. "No, I can't see the future. But statistically I have almost zero chance of dying today. And keep in mind that if something _were_ to happen to me, I'll be in a hospital where there are doctors and nurses and machines and medicines designed to save lives. I'll be safe as houses."

"Safe as houses? I think you mean you'll be safe as _hospitals_ , John," Sherlock said with authority.

Chatsworth spit out laughter and made haste for the kitchen. John himself couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Okay, then. Safe as hospitals. Also, don't forget that Chatsworth is going to start teaching you how to read today. You'll be so busy, you won't even know I'm gone."

"John," Sherlock said in the tone that implied he seriously doubted John's intelligence. "How can I fail to notice you're gone when you are, in fact, _gone_."

John rubbed his chin on the soft jut of Sherlock's snout and laughed. "It's just a saying. It means you'll have other things to occupy your time and won't be thinking of me being gone every minute."

"I don't see how that's possible," Sherlock said with a somber shake of his head. "I can't forget you for _any_ minutes. That would be just as bad as if you died!"

John was out of time if he didn't want to get to work late. "Okay, okay. I'll be thinking of you, too."

"Every minute?"

"Every minute."

"And you must promise not to leave the hospital. It's not safe out there."

"I promise not to leave the hospital until it's time to go home."

"Well, okay then. But we might need to have a talk about you only being a doctor _one_ day of the week."

At this, John erupted in laughter. He squeezed his dragon, gave him a final cheek rub and was out the door.

~*~

When John opened the door to the flat, Sherlock did a sort of run-hop towards him chanting his name like he had when he'd first hatched.

"Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn!" He grabbed John around the knees, his tail winding tightly around John's ankles. "I'm never letting you leave the house without me again! It was _awful_ while you were gone!" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I think Chatsworth is secretly working for Mycroft."

John looked at him blankly. "That's not a secret, Sherlock. We all know Chatsworth is working for Mycroft."

"But I mean, I think he's secretly working _against_ us on Mycroft's orders!"

"He's not working against us, Sherlock."

"He is; he _is_ ," Sherlock hissed. "He wouldn't let me watch TV _at all_ and you know Mycroft said I was to be strictly prohibited from watching it. That must mean Chatsworth is here to do Mycroft's bidding."

John rolled his eyes. "It's a good thing I love you because you are _utterly_ ridiculous. Now let go of me so I can go get showered and changed."

~*~

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock grew in both size and length. His jaw became heavier, his legs more powerful, his tail thicker. He developed a ruff that lay flat until he felt threatened or angry and then it shot up to frame his neck. Sherlock could make it vibrate and it gave off a sound much like a rattlesnake's. He loved to use it on Mycroft and, occasionally, on John if John was being particularly insistent in not giving Sherlock his way.

Like his wings it was jointed, but without the cruel claw at the end of each joint. It was almost purely white so that when it was down, he looked like he was wearing a pearl necklace or collar. When he snapped it taut, it flashed with the same opalescent sheen as the other white markings on Sherlock's body. It felt dry and papery to the touch and it took John several days to get used to the feel of it on Sherlock's throat.

Another curious development was a sort of fan at the end of his tail. Like the ruff or his wings, this was also jointed. When Sherlock was agitated, he would snap his tail much like he'd always done, but instead of it looking like someone flicking a booger, the fan opened with a sharp snap like _rrrrrappp_.

As Sherlock grew, it became harder for him to navigate through the flat without knocking something over or bumping into things. John and Chatsworth had to clear everything out that wasn't absolutely necessary and push the larger furniture against the walls to leave plenty of room.

They kept track of Sherlock's growth, in part because of John's curiosity, but also because Sherlock liked John to take out the notebook where he kept the measurements and read out to him how much bigger Sherlock was compared to previously. By the time Sherlock was a month old, it had become glaringly obvious that Sherlock could not stay in the flat for much longer. When he'd hatched, his head only came up to John's knee if Sherlock stretched it. He'd been six feet long, but now he was nine feet long and his head came up to John's waist.

The bed was getting crowded, too. John and Sherlock had slept together from the first day they'd met, when Sherlock was still in the egg. John wasn't about to force him to sleep somewhere else or—worse—on the floor like a dog. But every night, John felt he was pushed further and further towards the edge of the bed.

Another complication was keeping Sherlock busy or entertained. He'd been content for the first few weeks, but in the fourth week, he became increasingly restless and irritable. Strangely, though, he was more clingy with John—he followed John throughout the flat, even into the bathroom (though John nipped that habit in the bud from the get go); his tail was constantly twining around and through John's legs or around his waist or arms, and he couldn't go more than an hour without rubbing his cheek or chin on John.

"He's reaching sexual maturity," was Chatsworth's explanation. "It won't be long now before he can shift to human."

"Are you saying that he's—like, _flirting_ with me?"

"No, no, John. It's more like he's a cat in heat."

"Chatsworth, I'm not sure you realize how very much _not better_ that explanation makes me feel."

"I guess what I mean is he's not doing these things because he wants to _mate_ with you; he's doing it because he's going through so many hormonal changes. This is comparable to the stage born-humans go through in their teens. They're very touchy-feely and need constant reassurance, yet they scream _I hate you_ and slam a lot of doors."

"Please don't tell me he's going to try to hump my leg."

"We're not _dogs_ , John," Chatsworth said.

"Okay, fine, fine. Should we sit down and talk with him about, like, safe sex?"

Chatsworth's laughter was so robust and lasted so long that John stomped off to his room, thoroughly embarrassed.

~*~

"What's _masturbate_ mean?" Sherlock asked.

John's head shot up and he found Sherlock staring at him, head cocked. He was spread out on the sitting room floor. All the furniture had been pushed back to the walls to make room for him. He was supposed to be listening to John read from one of the books on Mycroft's "approved" list but was instead watching TV.

John looked to the television, but it was only _The Walking Dead_ , and John was fairly sure there was no mention of masturbation in any of the episodes.

"Where did you hear that word?" John asked, his face heating.

"You were thinking it just now," Sherlock said.

John sputtered. "I bloody well _wasn't_!"

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "I saw it clearly. You were complaining about how much of the bed I take up—which, incidentally, I find extremely irritating as well—and that you haven't had the privacy to masturbate since I hatched."

From the kitchen, John heard the choking sound of Chatsworth attempting not to laugh. In consternation, John called to the kitchen, "Why don't _you_ tell him what _masturbate_ means, since you find this whole thing so funny!"

Chatsworth propped himself against the wall between the sitting room and kitchen, grinning. "Hey, don't fob this off on me. You were the one who was thinking about it."

"I _wasn't!_ " John cried. To himself, he thought, _at least I don't think I was._ Sherlock had the ability to pluck thoughts out of John's head that he didn't even know he was thinking. It was mortifying. If Sherlock said he was thinking the word _masturbate_ then he probably was. Where else would he have heard it?

"He _is_ reaching sexual maturity," Chatsworth said unhelpfully.

John glared at him then turned his eyes on Sherlock. "Come with me to the bedroom so I can explain it to you _in private_." John made for his bedroom without looking to see if his dragon was following.

"Oooh! Will there be a demonstration?" Sherlock asked.

Chatsworth made the choking noise again. John didn't even bother to glare at him.

Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock came back out of the bedroom. John's face was so red he looked as though he'd been sunburned. Sherlock was obviously desperately trying _not_ to ask John any questions, but he was nearly vibrating with curiosity.

In the quietest voice he was capable of (which was not at all quiet), Sherlock said, "You know, John, so much of your daily life involves your penis."

"Oh, my _God_! Please stop talking! Just. Don't say another word."

"But—"

"Nope! I will turn around and lock myself in that bedroom and leave you out here by yourself if you say another word."

Sherlock held up one clawed toe. "What if—"

"No."

"I just want to know if I can say other words so long as they're not about penises!" Sherlock growled, the words bunching together as he tried to get them out before John shushed him. His tail whipped around and knocked John in the back of the head hard enough that he stumbled.

"That's _it!_ " John shouted, startling Sherlock and Chatsworth both. Sherlock ducked his head, staring at the floor. John, feeling slightly ashamed for the volume of his outburst, continued nonetheless. "I cannot stay another night in this flat with you! You need to get out of here and go somewhere you won't be locked up in too little space with nothing to occupy you except finding new and mortifying ways of discussing penises!"

Technically, John was shouting at Chatsworth and not at Sherlock, but in his mind he felt the painful withdrawal of Sherlock's own mind. John moved to lay a comforting hand on Sherlock's head (which now reached chest high on John) and explain himself better, but Sherlock flinched out of the way and carefully maneuvered himself around John and out to the sitting room, where he curled himself up as small as he possibly could and continued to watch TV as though nothing had happened.

"I didn't mean—" John began, looking at Chatsworth for help.

Chatsworth didn't look likely to cut John any slack. "Really, John. You're a _doctor_. Why are you so embarrassed to talk about bodies? It's normal for a young dragon to be intensely curious about the human body. They know they'll change from dragon to human at some point and they want to compare the parts they have now with the corresponding parts they'll have on their human body."

"I only meant—"

"I'll ring for a van." Chatsworth shook his head, already pulling his mobile out of his pocket. "We'll have to sneak Sherlock out since it's the middle of the day."

John, alone in the kitchen, felt like an arsehole.  _You are an arsehole_ , he thought.

~*~

Sherlock didn't remain cool to John for long, and John showered him with attention in relief. They sat together on the couch while Chatsworth explained how they were getting out of the flat.

"It'll be a big cage, Sherlock, but it'll be a tight fit with your tail. You'll have to wrap your tail around your middle so you can get into the cage. Once we're in the van, you can come out."

Then Chatsworth turned to John. "John, pack your things. We're going to Mycroft's estate and we'll stay there until Sherlock is able to change forms. There's a learning curve when a young dragon first shifts—learning to walk on two legs instead of four, having opposable thumbs and so forth—and until Sherlock is comfortable going out in public, we might want to stay close to the Holmes estate. It's warded with a lookaway spell so—"

"Excuse me, a _what_? Dragons can cast _spells_?"

"Oh, no, we had to get a warlock for that."

 _A warlock_ , John mouthed, and let his jaw hang open. Finally, he shook his head and sighed. He shouldn't have been surprised to find there was magic in the world. After all, it was magic that had given him Sherlock, and if dragons existed that could turn into humans then _of course_ anything else was possible.

~*~

In the end, smuggling a dragon out of the flat was easier than John thought it would be. Chatsworth had called for two vans. One for him and John and Sherlock; the other for all their stuff. Sherlock was cooperative, having been told he could get out of the crate as soon as they had the van doors shut. Since Chatsworth was driving, John had to help Sherlock out of his confinement and then somehow, with both himself and a hundred and twenty-five pound dragon crammed in the back of the van, figure out how to fold up the crate to make more room.

It was at that point that Sherlock became far less cooperative. The back of the van had no windows so Sherlock kept craning his neck over the front seats trying to see out of the windscreen as Chatsworth drove. This meant his tail knocked John around so that it took him much longer than it might have otherwise to discover the trick of flattening the metal crate. Finally, after much cursing, it was done and secured to the side of the van. John climbed over Sherlock and into the front passenger seat.

With Sherlock's head resting over his shoulder and his constant exclamations of wonder and curiosity, John found the ninety minute trip passing by in the blink of an eye. It was something wonderful to see one's everyday familiar world through the eyes of someone for whom it was new. The sun seemed to shine more strongly with Sherlock next to him and the green of the English countryside seemed saturated with color.

They pulled through a set of iron gates in the middle of nowhere which led to a long road that eventually ended, far in the distance, at a large manor house.

"You want to give flying a try, Sherlock?" Chatsworth asked over his shoulder as he opened the gate with a remote and drove through.

"Oh, _yes_. Yes, please!" Sherlock said.

When they finally pulled up a little ways to the side of the house, Sherlock scolded John for taking too long to open the back doors. Having no hands, Sherlock couldn't open them from the inside.

"Now, before you take off—" John began, thinking he would discuss with Sherlock how long he could fly, how far he could go, how to find his way back, and so forth—but he didn't get the chance to say the rest. 

The minute the back doors were opened, Sherlock hopped out, flexed his wings, and with one leap of his powerful back legs, he was up in the air, flapping his great black wings.

John foolishly ran after him, calling to him to _wait_ , _don't go too far! Stay where I can see you!_ but Sherlock had finally found something more interesting than John—flying.

John trotted back to where Chatsworth stood. "What if he goes too far?"

Chatsworth's eyes were on the sky where Sherlock's black wings were growing quickly smaller. "He won't go too far."

"What if he gets hurt?"

Chatsworth gave John a flat look. "I'm a dragon. He's a dragon. This is a dragon rite of passage, the first flight. He'll be fine; he won't go too far."

"But _I'm_ not a dragon. What if he doesn't—" John began, but realized that he didn't know how to articulate his fear. _What if he doesn't want me anymore?_ John couldn't say it, but Chatsworth must've seen it in his eyes.

He clapped a large hand onto John's shoulder. "The bond, John. Remember the bond. He will _always_ come back to you. You're his north star, his home—wherever you go, he'll follow."

 

Chatsworth was, of course, right and John needn't have worried. Sherlock soon flew back and said, "John, watch this!" and flew in corkscrew and was back right away to be praised for it. (And, of course, John praised him for it.) Then it was, "John! Look at me. Look what I can do!" and he flew higher and higher in the air before folding his wings and diving down towards earth. John yelled his name, his heart in his throat, but Sherlock snapped out his great leathery wings just in time and glided the rest of the way down, almost landing like a feather on solid ground.

John listened to the whipping furor of Sherlock's magnificent black wings and watched the opalescent shine of Sherlock's belly winking like a jewel in the sunlight until the sun kissed the horizon. Sherlock landed a final time, hungry and thirsty and demanding as usual. John, still flushed with the awe of watching Sherlock fly, gripped Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John's. They stayed that way for a moment, heads together, love and joy passing back and forth between them in their own kind of magic.


End file.
